The World Conspires Against Us, My Love
by Coffee-is-Life
Summary: This is a sequel to The Second Kalmar Union. It takes place about 25 years after the conclusion of that story, in the year 2055. More shippy, more angsty, less funny. Probably will also be longer than SKU. And did I mention that America is the antagonist? Also, I now feel obligated to mention that there will be m-preg and major character death.
1. Prologue

"In the years following the Euro Crisis of 2030, the balance of power in Europe changed drastically. Norway, with its tight confederation of states in Northern Europe, recovered from the crisis the quickest. For this reason, Norway became one of the most powerful states in Europe, and one of the most prosperous states in the world.

"In the settlements after the conflict, America was forced to pay reparations to Germany and the new nation of Prussia. The American people were unhappy (In fact, this is a reason that our current president has an aggressive foreign policy.) and tried to protest the reparations, but the case was thrown out of the World Court. Thus, the American people are still dissatisfied that their tax money is being sent to Germany and Prussia. As of 2053, $2 billion are being sent every year.

"A host of new alliances were formed after the Crisis. The most important was the formation of the New Kalmar Union, led by Norway, but alos comprising Denmark, Sweden, Finland, and Iceland. However, another alliance of note was the Franco-Scottish Alliance, formalized in 2032. America formed closer bonds with both Japan and Russia during this period. Lastly, the Prussian-Hungarian Alliance was formalized in 2038."

-From Washington and Jones'

_World Civilization, 5__th__ Edition, _

Published 2053


	2. Chapter 1

Spring had come to the North at last. It had been a long, cold winter.

Finally, the snow (and there had been quite a bit of it) melted, and the purple heathers had bloomed.

In fact, this seemed like the warmest spring Norway could remember.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the mirror. He really disliked the fact that fashions from the 1800's were once again "in". Stupid ascot…

Someone knocked on the door. "Who is it?"

"It's Iceland, Norway."

"Come in."

Iceland stepped into the room. "Are you ready yet?"

"As soon as I figure out this infernal ascot."

Iceland laughed. "You were never good with those. Want some help?"

"Yes, please," Norway grumbled. Iceland stood in front of him. And, with nimble fingers, he straightened Norway's ascot.

"Why are you so good at this, Little Brother?" Norway asked, picking up the wrapped gift off the dresser.

Iceland shrugged. "Denmark could never do it, either." He paused. You're not… nervous, are you?"

"Nervous? Why would I be nervous?"

"Seriously, Nor, you're making small talk."

"Fine. Scotty told me that he and France have a gift for me. They wouldn't tell me what it was."

"So? Surprises can be fun."

"I don't like surprises, Little Brother."

Iceland shrugged again. "I'm sure it will be fine."

Norway nodded. "Probably. Are the other ready?"

"Almost. Denmark had to have Finland help him with his ascot, and Sweden got jealous. It was resolved, and no one has any broken bones, so…"

"Well, that's good."

"Yeah, we can go as soon as Denmark's nose stops bleeding."

"Helvete, can't they just stop fighting."

"It's Denmark and Sweden, Norway."

"True. We should go now."

* * *

About five hours later, all five Nordics, Prussia, Hungary, England, Austria, Switzerland, Spain, Germany, both Italies, Canada, Wales, the Ireland Brothers, France, and Scotland were all seated around a very large dinner table.

The meal had been eaten, and the dishes cleared away; now all of the countries relaxed over glasses of wine whilst making conversation. Prussia and Hungary were off in a corner, dancing to the classical music that played.

Finally, France tapped the side of his glass lightly with a spoon. "Mes amis, thank you all for coming, and thank you all for your lovely gifts."

"Skål!" Denmark shouted, draining his wine glass in one gulp.

"Denmark, that's extremely rude," Norway hissed at him.

Scotland stood. "To friends and family!"

"To friends and family!" Wineglasses were emptied; England was already red in the face.

"Now, to our good friend Norway," France began.

Norway's head snapped up.

"We have a gift for you."

That could not be a good thing.

Norway was sitting a few seats down from the happy couple and before he knew what was happening, a wicker basket was placed on the table in front of him.

He cast a glance at the two. "What is this?"

"You left it in my house many years ago; I zhought you might want it back," France said with a wink and a half-stifled laugh.

Frowning, Norway reached looked into the basket. The rest of the countries watched in shock as he lifted a sleeping child out.

"What is this?" he repeated.

"Normandy," Scotland replied.

"Well, she is your child, Norvège," France said.

"Ja, I suppose that is true." Norway was only half-paying attention now, since he was busy tickling the child under her chin, making her giggle. He decided she had his eyes.

"I never knew you vere good vis children, Norvay."

Norway smiled. "I had lots of children to take care of." He cooed softly and the little girl giggled again.

Hungary came over. "This is your child, Norway?" she asked. "Yours and who else's?"

Norway just smiled.

Hungary cooed at the baby, who giggled and grabbed one of Hungary's fingers. "She has such tiny fingers!"

"She's still just a baby."

Hungary tickled the baby under the chin, then left to go talk to Prussia. Norway turned to thank France and Scotland, only to find that they were having a "moment".

Normandy had fallen asleep with her thumb in her mouth. Gently, Norway removed it.

In a short while, it seemed that France and Scotland were through with their "moment".

"It's gettin' late," Scotland said. "We've got a few rooms if ye cannae drive home."

A few countries accepted (Scotland made England accept -it is not a good idea to go driving when you're questioning your religion), but most said goodbye and left.

The Nordics were last to leave. Norway made Sweden drive (he'd had the least to drink and didn't have a child to worry about either), and they made it home at about 2 in the morning.

* * *

A/N: Norway has children. Deal with it.


	3. Chapter 2

America sat in the Oval Office, talking to his boss about finances.

Currently, it was a touchy subject.

Still, America had a plan. He pulled a thick folder out of his briefcase. "I have a proposal, Mr. President. I think you'll like it."

"What is it?" the President asked as America sorted through the papers in the folder.

America pushed a map across the desk. "We increase the number of our troops stationed in Iceland. From there, the oil rigs aren't very far away."

"Won't the Norwegians have something to say about that?"

"Quite possibly. However, as you recall, the reparations we must make were proposed by Norway. Besides, if they resist us taking the rigs, we can invade and take the rest of their natural resources."

"And how will we pay for this, Mr. Jones?"

"The Defense budget was the only one that we didn't cut spending to."

"And justification? We'll need it if we want allies."

"Simple. We say that we are 'protecting' Iceland. We still have to do that, for all that NATO is not really a thing anymore. And quite frankly, the world is no longer as Americans would like to think."

"There is something you are not telling me, Mr. Jones."

"No one defeats America. We are the US of A, and when we are kicked down, we stand right back up and strike back."

"So this is revenge?"

"Yeah, it is!"

"I think your Norwegian heritage is showing."

America glared. "Not cool, dude."

The president sighed. "I'll see if I can get this passed."

"Thanks, dude!"

* * *

A/N: Iceland has no military, so in times of peace, Norway defends its airspace, and in times of war, America takes over.


	4. Chapter 3

Iceland looked up as a man ran into his office.

"Sir," he said, breathing heavily, "Sir, there are…American….planes flying…over the city…"

Iceland frowned. "Have they said what they want?"

The messenger just shook his head.

"Has there been news from my brother?"

"He said there…might…be an American invasion…."

"What?! When did this news come in?"

"15 minutes ago, sir. He sent a plane for you."

"I'm not leaving."

"Here's the message he sent you." The messenger handed Iceland an envelope.

Iceland ripped it open.

"_Little Brother,_" it began:

_ "Recent intelligence informs me that America wishes to occupy you island. Please come back to Oslo IMMEDIATELY. I will send the RNAF to halt the invasion, but I would prefer to make sure that you are safe. This is not so much a friendly request as it is an order. I look forward to seeing you soon._

_ -Your Big Brother,_

_ Kongeriket Norge"_

"Damn it all!"

"Sir?"

"Where is the plane waiting?"

"The airfield, sir."

"Let's go." Under his breath, he muttered, "I knew we should have had a military."

He scribbled some orders on a sheet of paper. "This is to be read to the citizens. They are to resist as long as possible."

"It will be done."

"Thank you."

* * *

America was satisfied with the invasion of Iceland. It had only been a week since he had presented his plans to his boss, and yet the bureaucracy had been surprisingly efficient.

Maybe they wanted revenge just as badly as he did.

It did not take long to claim the capital, and after that, the resistance was quickly crushed. The American forces were superior to the Norwegian forces; after all, America was the land of innovation and invention.

With Iceland under his control (the land, anyway, if not the person), it was time to move on: first to Ireland, who was not a friendly neutral and was more likely to side with the enemy; and then to Norway.


	5. Chapter 4

Norway sat in a darkened room with England and Romania: the Magic Trio.

Norway had asked them there because he needed to look into the future. Is magic was very old and very strong, but this was one thing he'd never been able to do.

Romania whispered words in a language that Norway could understand. The crystal ball in front of him slowly began giving off light, reflecting from Romania's red eyes.

"What do you see, Norway?" he whispered, beckoning Norway to look into the globe. His over-long canine teeth were clearly visible in his grin.

Norway looked nervously. He was not sure what he would see.

"What do you see?" England repeated after a long moment.

Norway shuddered. "Two ravens fight a chained wolf; a serpent bites its own tail as it writhes about the world; a man with one eye hangs from a tree, bleeding from a wound in his side; three sisters look into a never-ending river-"

"Enough!"

Shocked out of his reverie, Norway stopped and looked up at Romania.

"What do these images mean to you?"

Norway shook his head. "The old ways, when my people worshipped Odin and Loki and Thor…These images come from the Last Battle." His voice was distant, faint. It was so quiet that England ad to lean forward to hear him.

"Do these images mean anything to you, England?"

"Morrigan," he offered. "The War Goddess."

"War is coming, then?"

"It is already here, Romania."

* * *

Norway had been sleeping quite soundly when a knock on his door woke him.

He glanced over at Normandy (he hadn't found time to look for Iceland's old cradle, so she slept in his bed), but she was still sleeping soundly.

The knock came again. Quietly yet swiftly, Norway climbed out of bad, praying that the incessant knocking didn't wake his daughter.

He opened the door. Denmark was standing there, in his pajamas and holding a pillow.

"What do you want?" Norway hissed in a low voice.

"Can I sleep in here tonight? Like when we were kids?"

"Why?"

Denmark looked down at the floor. "I feel lonely tonight. Please, Nor?"

Norway sighed. "Yeah, come in. Just be careful of Normandy."

"Thanks, Norge," Denmark said as he climbed in bed after Norway. He snuggled up against the smaller man.

"What are you doing, Danmark?"

"I said, 'Like when we were kids,' remember?"

Another knock sounded at the door. "Faen!"Norway cursed softly as he crawled out of bed to answer it.

This time, it was a sleepy-looking Iceland, holding a stuffed puffin toy.

"Big Brother, I can't sleep."

"Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

"If you don't mind."

"Not at all. It might be a little crowded, though."

The four of them (if you count Normandy, who had slept through all of this) had just gotten settled when another knock sounded at the door.

Normandy woke up and started crying. Norway picked her up and tried to calm her and went to answer the door.

Sweden and Finland were on the other side. "Oh, good, you're awake-"Finland began, before noticing Norway's glare and Normandy's crying.

"You want to sleep here, right?"

"Yes, if it's no problem, Norja, if you-"

"Get in."

"Thank you, Norja! You are the best-"

"Shut up, Finland."

As everyone was getting settled (again), Norway sang a lullaby, and Normandy fell asleep quickly.

It was a good thing that Norway had such a large bed; otherwise, they never would have all fit. From left to right: Denmark was snuggled up against Norway, who still held Normandy, who almost punched Iceland in the nose as she turned over. In order to "save room", Finland and Sweden were snuggled close together on the other side of Iceland.

Norway lay awake for a few moments after everyone else's breathing had become slow and even with slumber. They were all together. This arrangement had not been uncommon when they were younger. But as they had grown apart, they had moved to different beds.

Now, with all of them together, it reminded Norway of more peaceful days- days that had seemed like they would last forever.

For one more night, he could pretend that they still had.


	6. Chapter 5

Of course, the peace could not last long.

The next day, America began his attack on Norway.

Denmark watched as Norway read reports, signed orders, and made preparations to set up a provisional capital in Normandy.

"You don't think we can hold off the American forces, Norge?"

"He is family, Danmark. You know how our family is," he replied without looking up.

"How is he family?" Denmark asked, curious.

"Two ways," Norway said, sounding mildly annoyed, but still not looking up. "First of all, his brother was Vinland, Canada now, and that was one of my children before…well. Second, he is related to England, who is Scotland's brother, who, **_as you know_**, was my paramour of old. You know this already. Why are you bothering me?"

Denmark shrugged. "Keeping you company, I guess." He paused. "How are you holding up now that Iceland's house has been taken?"

Norway sighed. "It is hard to see him like that. I am happy that his people still fight, but I wish I had been able to help more."

"We all do, Nor."

Norway's mouth twitched up in…well, not quite a smile, but close. "We shall do better here."

"Practice makes perfect."

"Don't quote my own proverbs back to me. Go find something useful to do."

With a barely concealed smirk, Denmark left.

* * *

He was back in barely an hour, this time waving a report from the eastern front.

"What. Is. It?"

"Russia's moving on Finland!"

"Faen. Are you sure?"

"The latest report verifies it, Nor. Look here," Denmark said as he handed the report to Norway. As Norway read it, Finland burst into the room.

"Norja! I heard about the report!"

Norway took a second to glare at Denmark, then he turned to Finland. "And?"

"I am wanting to fight Russia."

"I can't let you do that."

"Why not, Norja?!"

"We barely have enough men on this front. We don't have the resources or the manpower for a two-front war. I'm sorry."

A messenger ran into the tent, holding four new reports.

"What are these?"

"Commander, sir, these just came in from Northern Ireland, Republic of Ireland, Prussia, and Hungary. They want an alliance."

Denmark watched as the wheels turned in Norway's head. Finally, he turned back to Finland. "Looks like I can let you go fight Russia. Sweden, Prussia, and Hungary will join you."

"Thank you, Norja!" Finland shouted happily as he ran from the room.

"Old hatreds do not die easily," Denmark muttered.

"It's the way of the world."

* * *

A/N: Eric the Red was the first European to set foot in North America. He was Norwegian (sort of; it's a long story. He was born in Iceland, but Iceland was part of Norway at that time, so...).

And the phrase "Scandinavian Scotland."


	7. Chapter 6

Denmark stood on the edge of Oslofjord, watching the planes fly in all directions: fighter jets went north, east, and west to fight the American and Russian forces; cargo planes went south, carrying people and supplies to Normandy.

"I thought you were afraid of heights, Danmark."

Denmark spun around, only to find Norway standing there, dressed in his RNAF uniform.

"What?"

Norway gestured. "You're standing on the edge of Oslofjord."

"I was watching the planes." He shrugged.

Norway looked up at the planes. "It will not be long before the only planes that patrol here are American."

"How can you say that, Norge?!" Denmark was surprised, to say the least. Norway? Give up? Never!

"The troops we have available are far less than the troops America has. It is a simple arithmetic problem."

"You were always better at math than I was," Denmark conceded. "But have we no hope?"

Norway shook his head. He still did not look at Denmark; instead, he studied everything around them, as if trying to memorize what it looked like. "We disarmed after the collapse of the euro. We thought everyone did."

"Where are the others?" Denmark asked after a moment.

"Sweden and Finland are meeting with Prussia and Hungary to discuss the entry of Russia into the war."

"Why did Russia join America?"

"I assume so he could use his alliance to conceal his land-grab. Many of the eastern countries are already under his control."

"And Iceland?"

"I sent him to Northern France- Normandy, now, I guess -to help set up the provisional government. From there, we can conduct raids here and in Iceland. Having our armies there will also prevent them from being taken by American forces."

"You're much better at this than I was, Norge."

Norway glanced at Denmark. "Why do you say that?"

"You were always a better leader than I was. After you…got sick and I took over, we didn't have as many victories as we had during the Viking Ages."

"That is true." He paused. "I came to find you to tell you that our plane is leaving soon."

"Oh, okay."

"The pilots want to leave."

"Where are the American forces?"

"I got news that they have taken Bergen."

"It will be close going south."

"That's probably why the pilots are nervous," Norway replied with just a trace of wry humor coloring his voice.

"And you are not worried?"

There was a pause while Norway considered. "No, I'm not."

Denmark raised an eyebrow. "You sure, Norge?"

Norway sighed. "If it had been up to me, I would stay and fight."

"Your boss is making me leave?"

"Ja. Of course."

"Well, maybe it's for the best. We'll be safer in Normandy." Denmark was an optimist at heart.

Norway glared. "Perhaps that says something about your nature." He sighed. "No matter. It is time to depart."


	8. Chapter 7

The stars were very bright above the Highlands of Scotland.

"Mon cheri, I am glad that you passed zhe light pollution laws," France murmured.

"Me too. Have they gone through yet there?"

"Non, malheureusement. But soon, I think."

Scotland grinned and kissed France's forehead. France snuggled closer to Scotland. The Highlands were chilly this time of year, especially at night.

They lay there for a few minutes, both of them enjoying the other's company in a comfortable silence, before Scotland abruptly asked, "I's like when we were younger, i'n't?"

"Oui, mon cheri. C'est très beau."

Scotland lifted France's left hand and played with the ring on his ring finger for a moment. "Thank you."

France chuckled softly. "Whatever for, ma moitié?"

"Fer marryin' me. And fer puttin' up wit' me."

"Mais oui! If I did not, who would?"

Scotland laughed and kissed the top of France's head. "Tha gaol agam ort."

"Je t'aime aussi."

"I have a question fer ye, love."

France frowned. "A question?"

"Aye." A pause. "What exactly is yer relationship wit' Norway?"

France laughed softly. "Zhat is what you are worried about?"

Scotland could feelthe blush creep across his face. "So, there was nothing?"

"Mon dieu, I wouldn't say zhat, but you do not need to worry about it."

"Francis," Scotland growled warningly.

"I've got the have secrets, non? Besides, will you tell me about you relationship wiz Norway?"

Scotland glared.

"Non? Ah, I am sure zhat would be a very interesting story, Écosse."

"We're just friends!"

"Currently, oui. But you were not always just friends, n'est pas?"

Scotland kissed France possessively.

"Maybe we should bring up our past liaisons more often, Écosse," France murmured, his fingers going to the buttons on the front of Scotland's shirt.

* * *

A/N: Sorry, no smut. :)

The world needs more ScotFran, n'est pas?

And yes, I like to think that Norway had... romantic...relationships with both countries before 1319, when Norway had to marry Sweden (though, not at the same time).


	9. Chapter 8

Much to Iceland's dismay, the first thing that Norway did when he arrived in Normandy was visit him. Actually, Iceland had no idea that Norway had come over until he was standing in his tent.

"Hello, Little Brother."

"What are you doing in my tent?"

"I wanted to see how you are doing? Am I allowed to do that?"

"I'm trying to sleep."

"It's the middle of the afternoon. Unless you've taken to having siestas like Spain, this is not normal for you."

Iceland buried his head under a pillow. Maybe Norway would get the hint and leave.

No such luck.

"Come on, Little Brother. What's wrong?" Norway sat down on the edge of the cot and, removing the pillow, felt Iceland's forehead. "You have a fever, Little Brother," Norway added in a softer tone.

"Please let me sleep."

"You really don't look good."

"I know," Iceland groaned. He had seen the bags under his eyes, after all. Of course, they resembled bruises more than anything else.

"Why don't I make you some soup? Would that make you feel better?"

Iceland's mouth watered. Norway's soup had been the best part of his childhood. "Yes, please."

"Sure thing, Lille. I'll be right back, ok? Just concentrate on feeling better." Norway kissed Iceland's forehead in a brotherly fashion and left.

Iceland dozed off after a few minutes, but woke up again when Norway returned about 15 minutes later. Norway set a tray down on the table. "Can you sit up for me?"

Iceland sat up (not without some help from his big brother) and Norway set the tray down in his lap. Iceland slurped some soup and immediately started feeling better.

"Have you been eating, Little Brother?"

"Haven't been hungry, not since…"

"I'm sorry I couldn't do better. This is my fault, Iceland."

"I'm not a child!"

"I'm still responsible for you. But enough; you need to sleep." Norway stood. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Big Brother?"

Norway turned back. "Yes?"

"Will you tell me a story?"

Norway smiled. "Of course. What story would you like to hear?"

"You choose." Iceland snuggled into his blankets, closing his eyes.

Norway began telling a story- his favorite, "East o' the Sun, West o' the Moon" -in a soft, gentle tone.

* * *

Iceland was asleep in only a few minutes. Norway brushed the hair off of the younger boy's face. He looked so young when he slept. Norway sighed, missing older, simpler days.

He left Iceland to sleep in peace.


	10. Chapter 9

Norway called a strategy meeting the next day.

Iceland was absent (he was still under the weather), but everyone else was there or on video-chat. Sweden, Finland, Prussia, and Hungary shared one monitor, since they were on the same front. North Korea and Chine each had their own monitors.

The rest of Norway's allies were there in person: Denmark and both Irelands. Norway was sitting at the head of the table, holding the sleeping Normandy in his arms.

"Hello, everybody. I'd like to get status reports from everyone to start off."

Prussia somehow ended up in front of the webcam. "Russia has been making advances in zhe north. He already has taken Poland, zhe Baltics, and Ukraine."

"You think he will try to take Finland next?"

"Definitely. But I am thinking that he vill leave Sveden to America."

In the background, Sweden was glaring. "Where is Finland?" Norway asked.

"H' h'd t' l've."

"Why did he have to leave?"

"Zhe battle is getting close." Norway could barely hear Prussia over the sound of near-by gunfire.

"Sorry, Norway, we really need to go," Hungary said, her hand moving to close the laptop.

"No, don't-"

Too late; the monitor went dark.

Norway sighed. "China, how are things going in Asia?"

"Japan is making preparations for war, aru."

"Whose side?"

"America's."

Normandy woke up and began fussing. She was generally such a well-behaved child, which she clearly got from Norway. She reached up and tugged Norway's curl. Gently, he removed his curl from his grip. (Just because it was NOT like the Italy brothers' curls did not mean he liked having it messed with.)

"Pardon me, Mr. China."

"It's fine. I know how children are, aru."

"Any other news?"

China shook his head. "No, but it is getting late."

"I understand. Good night."

That monitor also went dark.

"North Korea?" Norway asked, turning to the final monitor. North Korea, unlike his brother, was a quiet, withdrawn man.

"There is no news."

"All quiet on the Pacific Front?" Denmark asked, snickering softly.

"Shut up, Idiot," Norway hissed. To North Korea, he said, "Thank you. Good night."

The Korean nodded and closed his laptop.

The Irelands had been silent through all of this- surprising, as they were among the most boisterous countries Norway knew.

"How are things on the Isles?"

"Scotty, Wales, an' England are stayin' neutral," one of them replied. Norway could not tell them apart, for all that they were not twins, only brothers.

"An' America has taken our land. Tha's why we joined ye."

"I know."

"What's the plan?" Denmark asked.

Norway gestured to the map spread out on the table. "We're here. As it stands, we are surrounded by neutral countries: France, Belgium, Netherlands, and Germany. By sea, we are across from England and Scotland, as well as Norway. From here, we will be protected as we make raids to Southern Norway, Iceland, and the Emerald Isle."

"What if America tries t' march through Germany or France?" one of the Irelands asked.

"Hopefully, the nation in question will not allow that. However, if America does take that course of action, then we must call for a strike on his western holdings. He will be distracted, and we may be able to defeat him in this theater."

"Why hasn't tha' been done already? It would also help distract Russia," the other Ireland asked.

"I want as little war as possible. I would prefer it if this did not turn into a world war."

"As would we all, Norge, but at whose expense?"

"With luck, Danmark, it will not be us who pays the butcher's bill."

Denmark seemed about to say something, but changed his mind at the last instant.

"If that's all, then good night." Norway stood and left the tent.


	11. Chapter 10

America, the president and three of his closest advisers sat around a table, planning.

"Sir, we've almost taken the entirety of Norway."

"What remains?"

"Oslo and the surrounding area."

America nodded. "We should begin thinking about Sweden. Isn't Liechtenstein a neighboring country?"

"Sir, Liechtenstein is near-"

"I knew it! Excellent. Let's invade Liechtenstein!"

"Sir-"

"Don't ask questions, just do it."

"Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

And so, an invasion of Liechtenstein was launched.

* * *

Switzerland watched the soldiers march across the land of his little sister with a grim expression. They were definitely American; no one else would be stupid enough to mess with his little sister.

"Big Brother, what are they doing?"

"Violating neutrality. And they will pay." He purposefully loaded his rifle and flipped the safety off. No one violated his sister's neutrality. No one.

He aimed and shot the soldier's leader in the head from nearly a mile away.

Norway wanted allies? Then Switzerland would join him. America had no idea who he was dealing with.

"Big Brother?"

"Prepare yourself, Lilly. I'll have to leave you for a while."


	12. Chapter 11

The Eastern Front was a disaster.

Russia was too strong, had too many "allies". The defenses crumbled before him.

Finland stood before Russia, defiant, proud, unafraid.

"Privyet, Finland."

"Hello, Russia."

"We meet again, da?"

"Perkele."

Russia smiled his adorable smile. "I am knowing what that means."

"Good." Finland raised his rifle and got off three shots. They bounced off Russia's pipe.

Damn it! He was out of bullets. He swung the butt of the rifle at Russia instead.

Laughing, Russia caught it, wrenching it from the Finn's hands. At the same time, he used his pipe to knock Finland's feet out from under him.

With a sharp exhalation, Finland fell to his knees. Gripping the front of his shirt, Russia hauled him back to his feet.

"Ruotsi!" Finland screamed. He would have preferred to defeat Russia on his own, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"He can't hear you," Russia whispered. "It will be fun to have you back in my house. The others are so well-behaved, but you…you are not, da?"

Finland twisted, trying to get out of Russia's grasp. His foot connected to Russia's shin, but that only made his smile grow larger.

"I have forgotten what a joy you are, Finland."

Finland opened his mouth to scream again, but Russia smiled and said, "You are wanting them to hear your defeat, da?"

Nope. Finland definitely did not want that. He settled for kicking Russia squarely in the knee. Russia's smile slipped. "You will pay for that, Suomi."

He dropped Finland to the ground, not quite letting him catch his breath before hooking the lead pipe around the Finn's neck.

"March, and maybe you will be keeping some of your pride," Russia hissed. "After all, you are not wanting to have the others watch me carry you."

And Finland obeyed, marching away to the east.


	13. Chapter 12

"Sir! There's urgent news from the Eastern Front!"

Norway's head snapped up. "What is it?"

"Beilschmidt wanted to tell you himself, sir."

Damn that Prussian. Norway had been taking a perfectly good nap at his desk and then he was woken up abruptly for some "urgent" news. It had better be important.

Norway stood, stretched, made sure Normandy was still sleeping soundly, and went to the meeting tent.

One monitor was on; it showed an extremely nervous Prussia waiting for Norway.

"Hàlo."

"Norvay, please, you've got to stop him!"

"Who?"

"Schweden! He's going to fight Russia, and-"

"Slow down. What's happening?"

"Russia took Finland earlier today and Schweden is in a murderous rage!"

Norway cursed softly. "Get him in here right away."

Prussia moved away from the webcam. "He's already here."

Sweden was sitting in a chair with an old, Viking-style spear propped against one knee. He was sharpening it by hand, causing the sound of steel-on-stone to grate on Norway's ears.

"Sweden! What are you doing?"

"'M g'ing t' f'ght 'm." (I'm going to fight him.)

"You can't fight Russia!"

"Th' H'll I c'n't." It was not Sweden's words that disturbed Norway; it was the fact that he hadn't yet looked up from sharpening his spear. (The Hell I can't.)

"Sverige, listen to me! You won't win; Russia's too strong. He'll either take you captive, or he'll kill you. And neither would put you in a position to help Finland."

Sweden still didn't look up. "'E's m'w'fe. I w'd've d'ne th' s'me fer ya." (He's my wife. I would've done the same for you.)

Norway frowned at the reminder that he'd been married to this man -twice. Still, he couldn't allow Sweden to face Russia, as that would be a form of suicide.

"Sweden, Finland wouldn't want you to do this. He'd want you to fight on, bring your skills to the war in a useful way. He wouldn't want you to sacrifice yourself for his sake."

"N'rway, 'e's m'w'fe. 'M s'pp'sed t' t'ke c're 'f 'm." (Norway, he's my wife. I'm supposed to take care of him.)

"Damn it, Sve, look at me!"

Glaring ,Sweden looked up. "Wh't?"

Norway flinched slightly at his glare. "Look, I need you to stay on the front and continue fighting. The lines are barely holding as it is. If you left…" Norway shook his head. "We might as well surrender now."

Sweden set the spear aside. "You'll die."

"Death is an old friend, Berwald."

"I c'n't l't th't h'pp'n. I- I w'n't go." (I couldn't let that happen. I won't go. )

Norway smiled sadly. "I will make sure that Finland is liberated first."

"Ev'n b'f're yers'lf?" (Even before yourself?)

"We became very close during…well, we became very close. He is like a brother to me."

Sweden sighed and glanced away. "You b'tter w'n." (You better win.)

Norway chuckled. "I'll try."

* * *

A/N: I think the one-sided SuNor here is very clear.


	14. Chapter 13

Denmark had recently heard the news from the eastern front. He wanted to hear why, exactly, Sweden had not chosen to fight Russia. It seemed so out-of-character…

Norway must be involved.

"Norge!" Denmark shouted while standing outside of Norway's tent.

"What do you want, Danmark?" Norway sounded irritated at the distraction.

"I need to talk to you."

Norway didn't say anything for a moment. "Fine."

Denmark entered the tent- and completely forgot what he was going to say.

Norway was seated on the ground and Normandy was walking- yes, walking! -towards his outstretched arms. She stumbled, fell, and started crying, but Norway scooped her up.

"Shh, shh, you're okay now," he murmured, bouncing her slightly. She hiccupped and stopped crying.

"What?" Norway asked, turning to Denmark.

Denmark quickly tried to remember why he'd come. "Um…Sweden!"

"What about him?"

"Why isn't he fighting Russia?"

"Why should he?"

"Finland!"

Normandy began fussing. Norway glared at Denmark (because it was totally his fault), then reached for a bottle of formula. "I've already promised him that Finland would be liberated first."

"In exchange for what?"

"He doesn't go fight Russia and possibly lose his life."

"How can you expect him to go along with that?!"

"I need him," Norway said simply, "and he understands that. Besides, Russia won't kill Finland. But if something happen to Sweden, we should go ahead and surrender now."

"If we surrender, you'll-"

"Yes. Danmark, I know." He sighed and put the empty bottle of formula on the table. "I've got the papers drawn up, if you want to see them."

Denmark shook his head. "No. Never. You made me read those papers before, and I hated it."

Norway smiled sadly. "It must be regarded as a possibility."

"You damn manipulative bastard! What do you want from me?"

Norway glared. "**You** came to see **me**, remember? And if you recall, it was** you **who manipulated **me** into being 'King of the North'."

"Well, I'm not saying that you didn't learn from the best…"

"Idiot." He set Normandy down (probably so she'd stop trying to play with his curl) and stood. "Look, we don't have the resources to get Finland right now. We don't even have the resources to clear out Little Brother's house."

"Are you okay, Norge?"

"Not really. I've got a headache." He tried to pour himself another cup of coffee, but, due to his trembling hands, managed instead to spill most of it on his papers.

"Is that it, Nor?" Denmark asked, taking the coffee pot away from Norway and pouring a cup of coffee.

"The resistance isn't going well." Norway took a sip of coffee.

"Oh?"

"Only Oslo remains free. The rest-" He shook his head. "It's gone."

"I'm so sorry, Lukas."

"It's fine. I'll survive. My heart still beats. It's still free."

The implication that it wouldn't be for much longer hung in the air.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, I'm alright, Danmark. Iceland might enjoy a story, though."

"Of course. Let me know if you need anything." He started to leave.

"Danmark?"

"Ja?"

"You're here. I don't need anything."

Grinning, Denmark left the tent.

* * *

A/N: I also think that Sweden still has some sort of feelings for Norway, despite Finland. Not that I ship SuNor.


	15. Chapter 14

An entire company of soldiers had been taken out. Apparently, the reports said, by a single sniper. Of course, it was the company sent to occupy Liechtenstein.

Apparently, Liechtenstein bordered Switzerland, not Sweden.

America finished the last of his Freedom Fries. McDonald's was his comfort food at times like this- actually, it was always his comfort food, but especially at times like this.

Well, he had to deal with Switzerland now. And he needed to find Norway's army. They weren't in Norway. They could be in Denmark, he supposed, but that didn't seem likely. It was too close to the front for America not to have found them already. Maybe Northern France…But, of course, France was neutral.

Wait, hadn't he read something about France showing friendship for Norway by letting Normandy succeed? Or something like that? Perhaps that's where Norway's army was.

The more America thought about it, the more it made sense.

The invasion of Normandy would be easy enough; after all, he had done it before. All he'd have to do would be send troops from Norway, through Denmark and West Germany, and then go through the Benelux. He'd send air support from Ireland to attack the other side. It would only take half his troops; the other half could be sent to Sweden. Within a month, maybe two, both sets of Norway's forces would fall.

* * *

A/N: I feel like I need to clarify stuff and things.

So, the prevalent ships are: one-sided RusAme, (currently) one-sided DenNor (or NorDen, if you prefer), one-sided almost SuNor, SuFin, PruHun (they're so cute!), ScotFran (because the world needs more ScotFran, AND it's historically accurate), and IcelandXFridge ( just kidding; Little Brother seems doomed to be forever alone). If you were wondering.


	16. Chapter 15

Denmark noted the sound of airplanes coming from the west. At first, he'd thought they were supplies. But that made no sense; supplies came from the south, as Norway had an agreement with France.

West? What was west?

The British Isles were north-west…

Oh. Gods.

Denmark jumped up from his chair. He had to tell Norway. He ran to Norway's tent. "Norway-" he began as he burst in.

"Hello, Danmark."

"Norge, there are-"

"I know."

"But how-?"

"Scout plane. Came back an hour ago with major wing damage. Pilot told us that he'd seen American scouts and fighter jets crossing the Channel."

"Ah. Then why didn't I hear-?"

"I don't have time to send someone to go look for you, nor, in fact, do I have anyone to send."

Norway hadn't looked up once rig this whole conversation. For some reason, that irritated Denmark.

"Is there something I can do?" he asked, hiding his irritation. It wouldn't be fair to take it out on Norway right now.

Norway shook his head. "Not right now. But make sure you turn out all of your lights tonight. We won't survive a midnight bombing raid."

"What about anti-aircraft guns?"

"We have some, but not enough. We don't have enough of anything."

"We've fought with less before."

"Not against such a powerful foe."

"You'll see, Norge. We'll prevail."

"Why?"

Denmark frowned. "Why what?"

"Why will we prevail? How do you know?"

"I don't know. But I have faith in your leadership." Since Norway was still sitting in front of his desk, Denmark rested his hands on Norway's shoulders, thumbs moving in slow circles to help get rid of the knots. (And Norway had a lot of knots. He was too stressed out.) "You're much better at this than I was."

"You never got into a mess like this."

Denmark knelt behind Norway's chair and rested his head on Norway's shoulder.

"But you're smarter than I am, Lukas. You'll get us out of this, you'll see," he murmured. He was so close he could feel Norway's slight shiver as Denmark's' breath hit his ear.

"What do you want?" Norway asked, just a little too loudly.

"You worry too much."

"And you don't worry enough."

"That's not true. I worry all the time."

"You don't show it."

"No," Denmark agreed simply. "I don't."

Norway's pen stopped moving. "Why is that?"

"I don't know."

Abruptly, Norway pulled away. "You need to go."

Denmark frowned. "But-"

"No. Leave."

"If you're sure…"

"Ja."

Denmark noticed the faint blush on Norway's cheeks. What in Hell was going on? He shook his head. "See you later, Norge."

He left.


	17. Chapter 16

The war was going badly. Norway hadn't told Denmark this, but they were almost completely surrounded. The supply lines from France had stopped getting through; the American troops were moving in.

He probably should have told Denmark, but ignorance was bliss, after all.

The situation was not completely hopeless. At least, not yet. He still had a few moves left before America put him in check.

The camp seemed dead now, especially at night, since lights were not allowed. But even during the day, people talked in hushed tones, as if not wanting to attract attention to themselves.

They were hungry. It seemed that America wanted to starve them into doing something stupid. If nothing else, he could starve Norway's army into submission.

Norway wanted to say that it wouldn't work, that his army would remain strong in the face of starvation.

But his was an army of humans, and humans needed to eat. Hunger was a great motivator. If they starved in defiance, and were fed in defeat, Norway knew which one they would choose. It was the way of the world, the nature of humans.

He sighed. He'd been at this too long; the words on the paper were starting to blur together, his hands shaking from lack of sleep. The last few days, he'd had very little sleep and less food, sustaining himself almost entirely on coffee alone.

The sun dipped below the horizon. With a sigh, Norway turned the lamp off. Too much of a bomb risk if any lights were left on.

Sunset would not halt his work though; the moon was full enough, bright enough, for him to see in the dark.

Once outside, he saw a glow on the horizon to the west. He smiled. It was part of his tactics: build a fake camp, complete with campfires, that was twice as large as the real one. It was far enough away that bombing would have no effect here; in fact, it distracted the American pilots.

He sat down at the base of a nearby tree and began filling out more paperwork. He really needed to talk to China, but that would have to wait until morning. "Lights out" meant all lights, even computer monitors.

He lost track of time as he filled out various forms: supply requests, troop requests, and numerous others.

The quick *rat*a*tat*tat* of gunfire caught his attention. There shouldn't be gunfire this close to camp.

He signaled to a soldier standing guard nearby, who lifted his rifle in readiness. They weren't far from the edge of camp at all; this "lone" gunman could prove to be a problem. If the Americans had found his camp…

A lone figure burst from between the trees, his back to Norway.

The lone figure seemed familiar. Norway did not give the signal for the guard to shoot- not yet.

The shots stopped. Norway couldn't see what the gunman had been shooting at, but it seemed they had all run off or been killed.

The figure turned around. Norway signaled for the guard to stand down as he ran over.

"Switzerland, what are you doing here?"

"You need allies."

"Well, yes, but you are always neutral. I thought you didn't believe in choosing sides."

"You were neutral once, Norway, and look where it got you. Besides, no one messes with my little sister."

Norway frowned. "America attacked Liechtenstein?"

"He did."

"It must not have gone well for him."

"It did not," Switzerland agreed.

"Can I offer you something to eat or drink? Water, maybe?"

"Water is fine."

Norway led him to one of the water coolers in a nearby tent. "How many soldiers did you bring with you?"

Switzerland shook his head. "I came alone."

Norway frowned, but changed the subject. "What did you see on the way here?"

"The American troops have set up camp about fifteen miles to the east."

"I haven't heard anything from my scouts-"

"They've been killing your scouts. They thought I was a scout, but alas," he patted his rifle almost fondly, "they do not better than to mess with a Swiss man with a gun."

"Did you teach them?"

"I tried, but dead men are slow learners."

Norway chuckled, then regained a serious tone. "The numbers?"

"I shot about fifty on my way here. The American camp is at least twice the size of yours."

Norway sighed. "Have they showed any signs of mobilizing again?"

"Not that I saw."

"Thank you, Switzerland."

The Swiss man shrugged. "I'm not doing this for you."

"I know, but…" Norway shook his head. "Never mind. I'll have someone show you to a tent. You must be tired."


	18. Chapter 17

The Highlands of Scotland were covered in patches of purple thistle.

Two men walked along, hand-in-hand: one was tall and blonde; the other was taller and red-headed. The red-head was carrying a picnic basket in his other hand. Finally, they stopped and sat on a large, flat rock.

"It's a beautiful day today."

"Aye."

France began unpacking the picnic basket, but he paused when he caught the Scottish man brooding. "What is wrong, Écosse?"

"Franny, do- do you love me?"

"Mais oui! Of course I do. Why would you ask me such a zhing?"

Scotland sighed. "I was thinkin'…"

"Never a good zhing," France interjected.

Scotland ignored the interjection, "What is yer current relationship wit' Norway?"

"I do not have one. He is a friend."

"But-"

"Non." France laid a finger against Scotland's lips. "Zhere is nozzhing. I love you, and only you."

"If you're sure…"

"You are not jealous, are you?"

"No!" Scotland exclaimed, while blushing.

"Mon cheri, I am not believing you. So you **_are _**jealous of Norway."

"I guess," Scotland grumbled.

"Zhere is no reason. Zhat was long ago." France laid a soft, chaste kiss on Scotland's cheek.

"Fine! Fine, I believe ye."

"So you will not be bringing zhis up again?"

"Probably not, why?"

France grinned impishly. "Zhen you will not speak of your own…liaisons wiz Monsieur Norway?"

"No!"

"I zhought not." France leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "But you are so cute when you are jealous."

"Cute?"

"Oui. Très mignon."

"Francis!"

"Alistor!" France mocked him.

Scotland sighed as France climbed into his lap. "Fine, but Franny, how exactly did Normandy…?"

"Je ne sais pas. His magic, perhaps? I do not concern myself wiz such zhings."

That got the wheels in Scotland's head turning. For now, though, he merely shook his head. "Thanks fer putting up wit' my paranoia, Franny."

France laughed softly. "But who else would?"

"Tha's not very nice," Scotland replied sternly.

"Tu sais que tu m'aime, Alistor."

* * *

A/N: What if these random interludes in the Highlands of Scotland were *actually* the real story, and everything else was filler? It's like story-ception!


	19. Chapter 18

"Papa!"

Norway's head snapped up. He had not heard that word directed at him in many centuries…

He looked over to Normandy, who (he thought) had been taking a nap in the cradle on the other side of the tent.

"Papa!" she said again.

Smiling, Norway stood and picked her up. "Who's a clever girl?" he murmured, switching to baby-talk.

Anyone else would have thought it odd that Norway could speak in baby-talk. He just wasn't the type. Of course, he only did it when he was alone with his children (though he had a sneaking suspicion Denmark had walked in on him one time during the 1200's).

Still, there was a swelling of paternal pride in his chest when he looked down at his little girl. She was growing rapidly, as new countries were apt to do. She already looked like a two-year-old. It meant that she was a little behind other (human) children, as far as development went, but Norway was not concerned; Svalbard had been nearly six before he started talking.

And, Norway admitted (perhaps with a bit of conceit, as well as bias), she was a very pretty little girl. She had inherited the blonde hair and blue eyes of both her parents. She was most often seen grinning and laughing (when she wasn't sleeping).

Denmark burst into Norway's tent. "Norge-!"

"Papa!"

"No, Emélie, that's not your papa," Norway murmured, before turning to Denmark. "Yes?"

"A shipment got through today."

The first in over two weeks. "Of what?"

"Medical supplies, food, ammo."

"Thank the gods. How much?"

"Enough food to last two more weeks with only light rationing. That's including you."

Norway frowned at that last statement.

Denmark poked him in the ribs. "Don't think I haven't noticed, Norge. You need to eat, too, you know."

"I really don't. Countries don't. But their people do. And if one less person goes hungry because I give up something I don't need in the first place, I'd say it's well worth it."

"You're much too thin."

Norway shrugged. "I've been thinner before."

A silent accusation hung in the air. Neither of them was comfortable enough with the past to acknowledge it.

"I'll bring you something to eat later, okay? But you have to promise that you'll eat it."

"I promise."

Denmark grinned. "So Normandy is talking, then?"

"Yes."

"You always had such cute kinds, Norge," he said, tickling Normandy under the chin. "Except Svalbard. That kid was creepy."

Norway chuckled. "Why don't you take that up with Russland?"

"I'd rather not."

"Is there any other news? If not, I've got work to do."

Denmark's face fell. "Bad news, I'm afraid. The American lines have moved to within five miles of ours."

Norway frowned. "Are they making preparations to strike?"

"We're thinking an air raid, since they have to have figured out where our camp is by now."

"Do we have time to move camp?"

Denmark shook his head. "Not without being noticed."

Norway sighed. "We've got a few planes. It's no Battle of Britain, but it'll do." He shook his head. "Any news from the eastern front?"

"It's been quiet. But some transmissions haven't been getting through."

"Which side is the problem on?"

Denmark grimaced. "ours. We think the Americans have found a way to block out-going signals."

"That could be a problem. Well, no matter, we fought wars before all of this gadgetry."

Denmark nodded. "Well, that's all the news for right now."

"Thank you."

Denmark smiled wryly. "I'm not sure you should be thanking me for that."

"It is better to be prepared, is it not?"

"I suppose." After an awkward moment, Denmark leaned down to kiss Normandy, and then Norway, both on the cheek.

Then he left.

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for over a thousand views on this story. Imaginary cookies for everyone!


	20. Chapter 19

The internet came back online that afternoon.

A good thing, Denmark decided. He needed some advice, and the only person who could help him was currently camped a few miles outside of Stockholm.

The video chat opened without a hitch. "Prussia, dude, good to see you!" Denmark said by way of greeting, before noticing Prussia's harried look and wild eyes. "Prussia, are you okay?"

"Nein, I am most un-awesomely not okay!" the albino hissed, looking cautiously over his shoulder.

"Dude, what's wrong?"

"Vhat's wrong? Vhat's wrong?! I'm going to be a vater, zhat's vhat's wrong!"

"Oh, congratulations!"

"I don't know how to be a vater! I barely managed wiz mein own brüder!"

"I'm sure you're going to be an awesome father. You could get parenting advice from Norway. Speaking of which-"

"Is zhis really zhe time to bring up your unrequited love for zhat man?"

Denmark's mouth fell open. "How-?"

Prussia laughed. "You don't remember? How un-awesome. Zhen again, you vere tipsier zhan an Englishman."

"What are you talking about?"

"You remember zhe meeting at vhich zhe awesome me became a country again?"

Denmark nodded.

"Vell, a few days later, I found you in zhe bar, getting drunk- so un-awesome of you, I might add, not to invite me -and you asked zhe awesome me for advice concerning particular Herr Norvay. So do you still vant advice?"

"Um…yes…"

"Zhen you should probably tell him how you are feeling."

"That's it?!"

"Vell, if you are not telling him, how vill he know? You both are blind vhen it comes to zhese things."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning-" Prussia abruptly cut off by the call of "Prussia, where are you?" from a certain Hungarian.

Prussia sighed. "In here, liebe."

Hungary entered the tent a moment later. "What is going on here?"

"Girl problems. Vell…"

"Oh, fun!" Hungary's eyes lit up. "Norway?"

"What the Hell, Prussia? I don't remember, but I probably asked you not to tell anyone!"

"I only told Liza."

"Come on, Dude! That's not cool!"

Hungary sniffed, apparently offended. "I was going to help you…"

Denmark glared. Did he want help with Norway? Of course he did. Did he want to admit it? Hell no.

"Liza, if you vant zhem to get together, ve'll have to give him some advice."

Hungary sighed. "That is true. They're so pathetic when it comes to these things." Her mood brightened instantly. "So, how long have you liked him?"

"Liza, liebe, I don't zhink it's a matter of 'like'," Prussia murmured. Denmark could still hear him, though.

"Oh, you are so right, Gil! This is excellent. So answer the question, Denmark, how long have you loved Norway?"

Denmark turned bright red. "Whatever, I don't need your help." He started to close the laptop.

"Fine! Fine, I don't need to know. So, Denmark, here's what you do…"

* * *

A/N: The return of match-maker Prussia!


	21. Chapter 20

America jumped out of the plane just as the wheels began to slow.

"Sir?" The attendant for the make-shift airfield had not expected him here in Normandy. Well, it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. The Siege of Oslo was starting to bore him.

"Sir, Mr. Braginsky is here to see you."

How on Earth did Russia know he'd be here? He hadn't told anyone he was coming…

"His army, too?"

"No, sir. Just him. He's in your office."

Damn creepy commie…

"Thanks!" America said as he walked towards his office-tent.

"Anytime, sir!"

"And stop calling me 'sir'!"

* * *

When America walked into the tent that had been set up as his office, he saw Russia seated at his desk.

"Privyet, Amerika!"

"Hello, Russia. Good to see you…"

"It is good to be seeing you too!"

"So, is there a reason you came to this front?"

Russia laughed. "Nyet!" He pulled out a bottle of vodka. "A drink?"

"…Sure."

"So, Amerika, how are things going on this front?" Russia asked as he poured two glasses of vodka and handed one to America.

"Good, I guess. Oslo is the only free part of Norway at the moment, so we're almost ready to start the invasion of Sweden. Probably tomorrow or the next day, if the bureaucracy gets their…um, if they get their stuff together. And part of my army is stationed here."

"Why?"

"Norway's army is a few miles that way." He pointed west. "We've blocked most of their out-going communications and in-coming supplies. We'll probably begin offensives tomorrow or the next day."

"Why wait?"

"We need more supplies- mostly ammo."

America had been standing awkwardly throughout this whole exchange. Now, however, Russia pulled him into his lap.

"Wh-what are you doing!?"

"Become one with me, Amerika."

"Commie!"

"Not anymore, Amerika. Why won't you become one with me? I have such a lovely, large house."

"No, I won't! Capitalism!"

Russia laughed his adorable, innocent-sounding laugh. "You will become one with me, Amerika."

"Nope! Not cool!" America began struggling, trying to get out of Russia's lap. "Let me go, you commie!"

"Sir?" An aide walked into the tent, saw what was going on, said, "Oh, sorry, sir, didn't mean to interrupt," then promptly left.

America, with his face redder than one of Romano's tomatoes, finally succeeded in squirming out of Russia's lap.

Russia laughed again. "Poor Amerika. So alone and won't let anyone help him."

"I-I don't need your help, you commie! I'm the hero!"

"We all are needing help at some time, da?"

"No!"

Russia smiled sadly. "Good bye, Amerika. We will be meeting again later to discuss strategy, da?"

"Sure, but only to discuss strategy."

"Da." Russia stood, lightly kissed the top of America's head, and left.

The tent instantly seemed larger, emptier, lonelier. America ignored that; he had work to do.


	22. Chapter 21

A few evenings later, Norway read the casualty report.

He didn't need to; he had felt every single one of those deaths as they happened. But the paper in his hand was like an anchor. It was real, but what was on it? That was not. Those deaths were only on paper. Everything he's felt was only a dream- a horrible, terrible dream, but a dream nonetheless.

He read it again: almost seven hundred dead, nearly twice that injured in some way. A third of the injured were not expected to last until morning.

He was glad Iceland had offered to watch Normandy tonight. He didn't want her to see him cry; no child should have to watch their parent cry.

He crumpled the report and threw it in the trashcan. He was just so tired. But he could not sleep. That, too was America's fault: the Siege of Oslo kept him up at night.

It wasn't going well.

He threw a wad of used tissues into the trashcan. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

Maybe it was time to call on his allies in Asia. He didn't really want this to escalate into a world war, but…

He caught a glimpse of a half-covered folder on his desk. He turned away. He didn't want to think about that, what it would mean if anyone had to read it.

A knock on the tent pole distracted him. "Yes?"

Denmark waltzed into the tent. "Hey, Norge."

"Hello. What brings you here?" Norway adopted a very neutral tone; he trusted Denmark (mostly), but not enough to let him see him be this weak.

Denmark shrugged. "Haven't seen you much recently."

"Oh. Okay."

"So, Norge, how are you?"

"I've been better, frankly." Understatement of the millennium.

"Been worse?"

"…Yes." Norway refrained from mentioning anything about four-hundred-year nights.

"Then it's alright."

It most certainly not "alright." "Idiot."

"Perhaps, but I'm your idiot."

"No, you're not. This union you coerced me into does not make it so that we are in a close personal union."

Denmark shrugged. "Same difference. Anyway-"

"It is not remotely the same thing at all."

Denmark studied Norway for a second; Norway could feel his gaze on the back of his head.

"D'ya know what you need, Lukas?"

Norway turned so he could see Denmark better. "No, what?"

Smirking, Denmark put a hand on the back of Norway's head and pulled him into a slow, gentle kiss. It was such a surprise that Norway let himself be kissed. It was so surprising that he kissed back. Denmark was so alive, so warm compared to Norway…

When Norway realized what was happening, he pulled away and slapped Denmark.

"Don't you ever-!" Norway began, breath ragged and cheeks burning.

"I could've sworn that you were enjoying it," Denmark muttered, rubbing his cheek. "I don't understand why you're acting like this."

"I don't want this."

"Want what?"

"I don't want- I don't need! - a relationship right now! I-I can't do this anymore."

"Maybe you need someone to take care of you. Someone you know well and someone who knows you well. What you like, what you dislike. Someone to look after you while you look after everything else."

"Are you suggesting yourself? Because you remember how that turned out." Norway reached for one of the pill bottles scattered across his desk. He almost couldn't get the bottle open.

"Pain pills?"

"Heart medication."

"Need help?"

"No." The cap came off. He dried-swallowed two pills. They went to work immediately; his heart slowed to the point where he could actually hear the individual beats. "I took you up on that offer once and look how it turned out."

"That's not my fault! Sve-!"

"Stop. It's no one's fault but your own. You and your pride!"

"Yes, I have a big pride- a huge pride! I'm an egomaniac, ok? But at least I have emotions. I'm not some cold-hearted bastard."

"It's difficult to have emotions when everything you have is stolen from you, when you are little more than property. But you wouldn't understand that, would you, Canary?" Norway stood up. "You have not had to fight for everything you have, okay? You can't judge me!"

"I never said I was!"

"You don't know what I've been through, Magnus. The fires of Hell and back, it seems sometimes. There is only so much a person can take, and I am through."

He strode past Denmark, but Denmark grabbed his arm.

"Don't you care for me? After all we went through together?"

Norway didn't say anything; he just glared up at the Dane.

"What about Sweden? Did you love him?"

A pause, in which Norway tried escaping Denmark's grasp. "No. He thinks I did, but I didn't. I never did."

"Who did your heart belong to then?" Denmark asked in a low voice. "Did you ever love me?"

"No." Norway clenched his hands into fists, but he didn't think Denmark noticed. After a moment (in which Denmark's face went through several interesting transformations), he succeeded in pulling away. He left the tent, hissing, "Don't follow me."

* * *

Denmark watched as Norway strode away, out of camp.

Had Norway been lying? Denmark couldn't say for sure. He'd known Norway for over a thousand years, but he couldn't tell if he was lying. What irony.

Norway had reached the edge of camp when words returned to Denmark. "Coward! Always such a coward, Norway! Every time something comes along that you can't handle, you run away like that coward you are! It's just like 1814 all over again!"

Frustrated and angry, Denmark stalked off in the other direction.

Norway didn't need him? Fine, he didn't need Norway either.

* * *

A/N: Denmark has really bad timing. All I have to say about that. Oh, and I plan on writing about the event that Denmark and Norway keep referencing in the above chapter. Probably smut, just a warning.


	23. Chapter 22

Norway was angry and humiliated, and so many other emotions he couldn't find names for them. He had felt this way before, 241 years ago, to be exact. He'd thought that it was over, that he wouldn't have to feel this way again.

He couldn't tell if Denmark had been serious; it was hard to tell sometimes. Last time, he hadn't thought he was being serious. But he had been.

The kiss had felt serious- caring, even. But last time…

He'd sworn off romantic relations after 1814. He'd been hurt too much.

He could admit it to himself, if only to himself: he was afraid of being hurt again.

A sudden noise snapped him out of his thoughts. A plane landing?

It shouldn't be landing here; the airfield was on the other side of camp.

He went to investigate.

Yes, a plane was definitely landing in a small clearing about a mile away from the camp.

Using skills gained from years of having to hunt for his dinner, he silently crept to the edge of the clearing. After all, he didn't know whose plane it was.

He watched as America jumped out of the plane. What was America doing here? Had he gotten lost? That would make sense, but…

America began striding towards Norway's hiding place. Norway realized that if he did not do something, America would find him. Norway preferred to find rather than be found.

Before America could come closer, Norway stepped out of the bushes. It was a rash decision, sure, but Norway had not always been known for his level-headedness.

"Hello, America."

"Norway, why are you all alone in the woods?"

"I could ask the same of you, but I'd rather cut your heart out, so you know what you've put me through." Sure, Norway was a little blood-thirsty, but given the circumstances, and you really blame him?

"Oh, why don't go all Viking on me? I'm so afraid," America mocked.

Norway grabbed the front of America's shirt. "You should be afraid, boy."

America spluttered indignantly. "I-I am **not** a boy!"

"No, I bet you'd scream like a little girl," Norway returned absently. This seemed far too easy; capturing America should have been harder.

Something writhed within Norway- a dark, malevolent thing he thought he'd banished. Blood magic. More specifically, the other side of his personality, the one that had taken the name "Sigmund" upon itself, the one that used blood magic. This terrified Norway more than he wanted to admit. The desire to use the blood magic, though, that was irresistible. It had been such a long, long time…  
A small part of his brain, asked where the blood was coming from. The larger part, the part that Sigmund had taken over, asked why he care; blood was blood, and using it to fuel his magic would feel so good…The last bit, a part far more well-mannered than Sigmund, pointed out the blood dripping from America's mouth- he'd probably just bit his lip or something.

As best as he could, he quelled the want- the need! -to use the blood magic. Very few things in this world were truly evil, and this was one of them. It was difficult, so difficult, especially while looking at America (so young and full of life!), but he…managed.

Disgusted by himself (Sigmund's presence made him feel unclean), he pushed America away. America fell, but was up in an instant.

"You think you're so special," Norway hissed. "Never had to pay for your own mistakes. Never called out for interfering in business not your own. But I called you out. I made you pay. That's what this is about, isn't it?"

America punched Norway in the mouth. Norway felt his lip scrape against teeth; blood welled up in his mouth. He spat it out.

"Nothing to say? Well, I have no regrets. You were getting too prideful, and pride goeth before the fall, as they say."

It was a dangerous game Norway played, but he didn't care anymore. He used magic (the regular kind, not blood magic) to hold America in place- at least, he tried. Something was blocking him…

He frowned and tried again.

America smirked. "Your 'magic' isn't working?"

Norway tried again. Nothing.

America's grim grew wider as he pulled something out of his shirt: a plain, gold ring on a silver chain. "It was a gift from England when I was little. It-"

"Deflects magic." Faen!"

America threw another punch. Norway tried to stop him by grabbing his wrist, but to no avail. America could, when he felt like it, drag a car by its front fender when he felt like it. Norway wasn't really a match for him physically. The punch still landed, this time breaking Norway's nose with a very interesting sound.

The only words that Norway could find to describe the sensation were "really painful." (That was the clean version.) His mind was rather preoccupied.

Norway tried to throw a punch, but his wrist was captured. Within seconds, his arm was twisted painfully behind him, and America's arm was across his throat.

"Do you surrender?" America asked is a low whisper.

"Never." He hoped the blood from his broken nose stained America's beloved bomber jacket.

"I won't kill you." America's tone was deceptively childish.

"Is that what you said to Hawaii?"

"I think you'll agree that's it's lonely at the top, Norway."

"I knew that you would come into this world. One of the few times I could peer into the future, I saw you, a light among the darkness. Or perhaps it was Germany. You two are much the same, though, he chose repentance. What will you choose, America?" Norway coughed and spat blood. Blood really did have a vile taste.

"Don't compare me to him!"

Norway chuckled. Perhaps, it wasn't really Norway; it seemed his other side was taking over. "Shall I compare thee to Russia, then? Thou art more powerful and cruel."

"Don't mock me, Norway. I thought we were friends!"

"You thought wring, America. We could've been friends, though." He tried, with no success, to kick America in the shin.

He could feel America shake his head. "I can't let you see where I'm taking you. You understand, right? It's just politics."

It wasn't called a sleeper hold for nothing.

Norway watched the world grow dark around him.

* * *

A/N: Headcannon: The 2p!'s are just a state of mind. Norway's is named Sigmund and is an evil little bastard, whose fairy companion has...chosen an alternate lifestyle. Sigmund enjoys heavy metal and death metal, is a psychopath, and really likes blood magic. Oh, and he'll appear in later chapters.


	24. Chapter 23

Norway hadn't returned.

Denmark had expected him to be gone for a few hours, maybe, calming himself down and gathering his thoughts. But here it was, the next morning, and Norway was nowhere to be found.

Guilt consumed Denmark. Had something happened to Norway?

Panic rose in his chest. What if something had happened to Norway? What was he going to do?

He took slow, deep breaths. Norway was probably just fine. He'd probably fallen asleep and was just waking up…

"He's fine. Norge can take care of himself," he muttered aloud.

Denmark knew he was lying to himself.

"Denmark, top o' th' mornin'."

Damn. The Irelands.

"What?"

"Wellanow, Denmark, can we talk t' ya?"

"I'm a little busy."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, have you seen Norway?"

"No. Why? Is-"

"-he missin'?"

Denmark hated it when the Irelands finished each other's sentences. "Yes, he's missing."

"Ah. Well, we 'aven't seen 'im."

"I've looked through the whole camp."

"Hey, we'll help ya look fer 'im."

"Thanks. He might be in the woods somewhere…"

"Ye've got problems with people leaving ya, don't ye?"

"No!"

"He's lying." Switzerland joined their little group. "I'll help you look."

Denmark glared at Sweden. It had no effect.

"Well, come along now, m'lad. 'E won't get found if we don't look fer 'im."

Denmark led the way out of the camp in the direction Norway had gone.

Eventually, they came to a clearing. There were signs of a plane taking off and landing, but, of course, no plane. There were also signs of a struggle: blood, scuffed-up dirt.

Denmark frowned.

Something had happened here.

He studied the tire marks from the plane. American tires from an American plane? Yes, definitely.

America had probably been here.

Tracks led from the plane's landing spot. Two sets. One was just drag marks. The other was composed of footprints, too big to be Norway's. Denmark could only assume that Norway had been dragged at some point. The tracks led to a patch of earth that was completely torn up. Two sets of footprints led away from the patch. Or rather, to the patch. One was clearly Norway's.

"Denmark."

Denmark turned to see Switzerland pointing at something in the dirt. Something glinted in the sunlight. Curiously, Denmark walked over to investigate.

Sitting in a pool of congealing blood was a small, silver cross.


	25. Chapter 24

Denmark could no longer read.

The words were too blurry, too distorted, for him to make out.

He closed the folder. It wouldn't do to get those documents wet; they were too important.

He wiped his eyes again; that did not stop the deluge.

He was glad (at least, the rational part of his mind was glad) that Norway had taken time to fill out these documents. That he'd set everything down, just in case.

Denmark knew how to carry on now.

It had been difficult, so difficult, going through the contents of Norway's desk, looking for that folder. The one that Norway had prepared, just in case.

Denmark hadn't expected to ever need it.

Those papers did several things Denmark hadn't expected from Norway: they made him the leader of Norway's army, they made him Normandy's legal guardian, and they charged him with looking after everyone else. Denmark didn't think that Norway had trusted him that much.

He didn't want those responsibilities.

Oh, he would take them upon himself, for Norway's sake. He would do everything to the best of his abilities, if not better.

But he would have preferred to watch Norway taking the helm, as he always had during the storms…

Someone knocked on the tent post.

Denmark wiped his eyes gain. "Come in."

A forlorn-looking Iceland entered the tent, leading an adorable three-year old with him.

"I heard about my brother."

"Who told you?"

"The Irelands. Do you think he's okay?"

Denmark sighed. "I don't know. We can hope, but…" Norway would not have parted with his hairpin if he was okay; Denmark did not want to voice this thought aloud.

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He's my brother, after all."

"Yeah. I'm sure he's okay." The lie slipped out easily. A fresh wave of guilt washed over Denmark. If it hadn't been for him…

The little girl let go of Iceland's hand and tottered over to Denmark. She lifted her arms up to him, silently demanding to be picked up.

He scooped her up, sighing. It was almost painful to look at her, she looked so much like her father…

Fresh tears stung his eyes.

"Why are you crying?" Her voice was beautiful, what Denmark imagined Norway's would have been, if he had been female.

"Because I'm sad, Sweetheart."

"But why? The fairies say that you should be happy."

Denmark sobbed, clutching the little girl to him. She hugged him back while he cried.

Finally, the tears let up.

"I'm sorry, Normandy," he said, giving her a fatherly kiss to the top of her head.

She looked confused. "It's okay, Uncle Denmark."

"No! No, call me…Dan, please."

"Okay, Dan-Dan. May I go out and play?"

"Of course, Sweetheart."

She slid off his lap and ran outside.

Denmark sighed as Normandy skipped away. She was both a reminder of Norway and a reminder that Norway would never be his again.

He stood up, took the folder, and left Norway's tent.


	26. Chapter 25

Scotland looked up as his office door opened. France stepped in. "Bonjour, Alistor."

"Hello, Franny. I thought ye were flyin' back t' Paris?"

"Ah, non. It is not safe to fly over my lands right now."

Scotland frowned. "But yer neutral…?"

"Oui. But Amerique 'as blockaded zhe supplies I am seinding to Norvège and 'e won't let anyone go zhrough zhe lines. So, here I am."

France had been walking towards Scotland's desk during his short monologue, and with its conclusion, settled himself in Scotland's lap.

"Franny, I have paperword t' do…" Scotland protested unconvincingly.

"Well, if you have paperwork to do, zhen do it," France whispered, his arms going around the Scottish man's neck.

"It might be time fer a break."

"I thought so." France leaned in for a kiss.

A very long kiss, as it turned out.

And it would have been longer (much longer, probably) had not a very red-haired, very blue-eyed boy walked into the office.

"Da-?" he began, before noticing what was going on. "Oh. Sorry, Da, Francis." He turned to leave.

As soon as they heard the boy's voice, France jumped out of Scotland's lap in a feat of gymnastics that were learned only after centuries of being caught in *ahem* "compromising" situations at court, and was currently adjusting his clothing.

Scotland, meanwhile, was turning a shade of red more commonly seen in tomatoes than people. He straightened the papers on his desk, then looked up. "Hello, Son. D'ya need something?"

The boy (well, fine, he was a teenager) was also bright red, though less red than his father. "Um…well…ah, never mind, Da."

"Well, alright, Tormod. Let me know if ya need anythin'…"

"I'm fine, Da!" Isle of Man stalked out of the office.

Frowning, Scotland got up and locked the door.

"Teenagers zhese days. Ah, I remember being a teenager…" France said wistfully. He noticed Scotland's frown. "What's wrong?"

"I don't think he likes you."

France shrugged. "I did not expect him to. After all, I am not his fazzer and besides, 'e's a teenager. 'E does not 'ave to like your decisions."

"But-"

France pressed a finger to Scotland's lips. "Non. You 'ave enough worries. Do not worry about me."

Scotland grinned suddenly and took France's hand in his own. "Sorry, Franny, tha's what this means," he said, bringing France's hand to his lips and kissing his ring finger- the own with the 25-year-old engagement ring on it.

France laughed softly. "Oh, Écosse, sometimes I forget how…sweet you can be."

Scotland dropped France's hand and wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's waist. "And what, exactly, is tha' supposed t' mean?"

France smiled impishly, then ducked out of Scotland's grasp, seating himself on Scotland's desk. "So, Écosse, do you ever think about having more children?"

"All the time." Scotland went to the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a scroll- clearly the type used for writing spells. "And I've found a way to do it."

"Zhis will work better zhan your brozzer's magic, oui?" France asked, nervously and a little bit curiously.

Scotland laughed as he untied the ribbon keeping the scroll rolled up. "No, Baby Brother's magic always left…something to be desired. This will work better, I assure you, love." Scotland's voice slowly dropped to a whisper as he leaned across the desk.

"But I suppose we still have to-?"

"Aye. What fun would it be otherwise?"

France swung his legs around the desk, turning to face Scotland. "Je t'aime, Alistor," he whispered, pulling Scotland closer.

"Je t'aime aussi, Francis," Scotland murmured into a passionate kiss.

* * *

A/N: Yes, the introduction of another one of my crazy OC's. This time, it's the Isle of Man.

Interesting story about the Isle of Man: Scotland owned it for a while, then sold it to Norway (or something like that), then Scotland demanded it back. This is the reason I had to search "Scottish-Norwegian names" on Google. I came up with "Tormod," which is an actual name, meaning something along the lines of "Courage of Thor."

In my story, he's an angsty teenager, who doesn't like France. And I just thought of another random interlude chapter that will be, much like this one, a lot of fun to write.

The inspiration for this chapter comes from my friend's rp-ing adventures online, the phrase "Why the Hell not?", and also the phrase "That seems like something France would do."

BTW, French was the official language of Scotland for a while. I swear, history sails its own ships.


	27. Chapter 26

America whirled around in his chair when the door to his office opened.

Russia walked in. "Privyet, Amerika."

"Hello."

"You are wanting to see me, da?"

"Um, yes…" Why did Russia have to be perpetually creepy? "I wanted to discuss a new development in the war."

"What is it, Amerika?"

America pushed a folder across the desk towards Russia. Russia opened it and flipped through the contents.

"Very clever, Amerika. Were you meaning to do that?"

"Of course. I'm the hero!" America didn't plan on telling Russia that he had gotten lost.

"Well, good job, Amerika. It is not an easy task to take Norway prisoner." Russia walked around the side of America's desk and kissed America's cheek. "You are so clever, da?"

America blushed crimson at the kiss. "Whoa, Russia, dude!" he exclaimed, pushing his chair away.

Russia sat on the desk. "Are you wanting to know what I dream of, _milyi_?"

"No, commie, I don't!"

Russia ignored him, staring off into space. "A field of endless sunflowers."

America frowned. " That's it? What a weird dream, dude."

"Da, a field of endless sunflowers, and the one I am giving my heart to. I can do that, you know; it just falls out sometimes." He shook his head. "What is it that you dream of?"

America wasn't sure how to respond after hearing about Russia's dream. "Um…world peace, I suppose…"

Russia nodded. "A good thing to dream of. Perhaps, if there was peace, and we were not being needed, then maybe…" Russia shook his head again. "Never mind. It was just an idle thought."

Did Russia act this way around other countries? Or was it just towards America?

"So, anyway," America began, desperate to change the subject, "I think the bombing of Oslo will begin soon…well, as soon as the bureaucracy pulls itself together…"

Russia nodded. "You are impatient for this campaign to be over."

"Dude, we began the Norwegian campaign just after New Years'!"

"And now the snow begins to fall. I am understanding. That is how they were feeling at Stalingrad."

"Look, dude," America began, his cheeks flushed for some reason, "I really have work to do."

"I will go. Good bye, Amerika." Russia slid off the desk, lightly kissed the top of America's head, and left.

An endless field of sunflowers? That sounded…nice. Peaceful.

America shook his head. They were in the middle of a war, after all. He didn't have time for dreams.

* * *

A/N: Sorry, I really did have to put the reference to WWII in there.


	28. Chapter 27

Prussia lay awake, listening to Hungary's slow, even breathing.

She looked so peaceful when she wasn't trying to beat him over the head with a frying pan…

She was so beautiful…

Prussia's heart had been broken when she'd married that foppish Austrian.

But now she was his…and Prussia didn't know how he felt about that.

Don't misunderstand; Prussia loves Hungary. With all his heart and soul.

But a child? Prussia knew less than nothing about taking care of children.

And there was another problem, one that humans were lucky enough not to face: what would their child personify? There were no separationist movements that Prussia was aware of, and since he was so awesome, he would know.

So, a child of two countries with no country to his name. What would become of him? (Prussia was fairly certain it would be an awesome boy. Though a girl would also be awesome, of course. It would be his child, after all.) Would he become human? Would he die? Or, perhaps worst of all, would he exist in a limbo sate, as Prussia had: not quite a country, but still unable to die?

Prussia resisted the urge to shudder. He didn't want to wake Hungary.

Hungary turned over in her sleep, coming to rest her head on Prussia's chest. He wrapped his arms more firmly around her, a subconscious gesture meant to protect her against anything.

She meant the world to him. It was thoughts of her that kept him from the void beyond life. He would do anything for her.

For her, he would do his best. He would do better than his best.

Very shortly, he was also asleep.


	29. Chapter 28

Pain.

It did not wake him, but it was there, waiting to pounce when he did wake.

It was in his head, his nose, his face…not everywhere, but close.

What had happened?

Perhaps more importantly, where was he?

Slowly, he sat up. He squinted as he looked around the room. Nothing looked familiar; then again, his mind was too fuzzy for him to really "see".

Something warm and cylindrical was pressed into his hand. On instinct, he lifted it to his mouth and sipped. Coffee. Glorious, wonderful, life-giving coffee.

The warmth coursed through his veins, dispelling the stiffness in his limbs and banishing the mental fog.

He looked in the direction that the coffee had come from. A plain, blonde, spectacled man sat there, watching him worriedly.

"Mr. Norway, you're awake," he began.

"Yes. Canada, right? Where am I?"

"In my brother's basement. I'm terribly sorry at the inconvenience."

"May I go then?"

Canada looked rather embarrassed, actually. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Norway."

Norway sighed and looked around the basement. It was a stereotypical American basement: no windows, dirt floors, random (and probably mislabeled) boxes strewn about. The walls showed signs of water damage.

"Mr. Norway," Canada began, "if you'll allow me, I'd like to see how your nose is healing…"

His nose? Right, it had been broken in the fight with America.

Actually, it seemed that Canada was fairly good at setting broken noses. Norway would only have a slight bump on the bridge of his nose, and over time, that would fade. Broken bones did that; scars, for some reason, did not.

Finally, Canada moved away. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Norway, but I really have to go now. There's food and water, if you want some…"

"Thank you, Canada."

The basement door closed behind Canada, leaving only a small strip of light under the door.


	30. Chapter 29

Denmark called a conference of his allies. He had a plan; rather, Norway had a plan and he modified it.

They had to be ready to strike soon.

Denmark needed this.

He sat nervously, waiting for the countries on the other side of the laptops to come online.

"You seem nervous, Denmark."

"I am, Little Bro."

"Why? You've done this before."

No, Denmark hadn't done this before. But then, he hadn't told Iceland what he was going to do. He hadn't told anyone. Not yet.

The laptop designated for the eastern front came to life.

"Hello, Denmark."

"Hello, Prussia, Hungary. Sweden."

"So, vhat is going on?"

"Not much at the moment. We're waiting for North Korea and China to sign on."

Those two laptops also came to life.

"Hello, China. North Korea."

"Hello," they said in unison, much to their apparent consternation.

"So, now that we're all here, I would like to begin planning the attack of America's west coast."

There was not a word spoken, not a single sound made, for a long time.

Then, everyone began speaking (shouting) at once:

"Zhat vill be so awesome!"

"That's not a great idea, aru!"

"Hm."

"Denmark, I really don't think that-"

"When do-"

"-we begin?"

"I will attack America if you want me to."

"Denmark, Norway wouldn't want-"

"I have a rifle, and I will use it…"

Denmark held up one hand. "I think you'll be surprised to find that these are Norway's plans."

This is what he had been expecting: divided, and loud, allies; some wanting to make an offensive, some content to sit back and wait. Denmark was done with waiting.

They were still talking.

"Enough!"

They all fell silent.

"As it stands, the western front and the eastern front will be crushed. We have a month. **_If _**we're lucky and America doesn't use bombs. There's no reason to think that he won't. But, if we can distract America and Russia, then we may stand a chance at survival." He sighed. "It's a crazy, hare-brained, last resort scheme, but I think, as would Norway, that we have no choice."

China frowned. "What has changed? Your army did not think that it was so hopeless before."

"Our most recent intell states that America will make a move to take Sweden soon. If Russia no longer needs to fight in the north, he will move south, perhaps to Prussia, and then to Austria. Or he could turn his eyes to the east: China, North Korea, both of you are well within his reach. We must make America fight for his life in the Pacific theater."

"There is another reason that you want to take this to America, isn't there, Denmark?" Hungary asked softly. "You blame Norway's disappearance on America, don't you?"

Denmark nodded. "America kidnapped Norway. I don't know how, but he did. And I will have my vengeance."

"'Nd I w'll h'lp," Sweden, of all countries, murmured. ("And I will help.")

"Sweden…?" Iceland began. No one expected Sweden to help Denmark. No one.

"'N th' c'nd'tion th't F'nl'nd 's fr'd f'rst." ("On the condition that Finland is freed first.")

"Of course! Of course we will liberate Finland first! As soon as the Pacific theater fighting begins, we will clear foreign troops out of Finland."

"And if we are to help you, we want something, some promise that you will not abandon us in the Pacific, aru."

"Once the war in Europe is under our control, we will join you in the Pacific, China. Or perhaps, we will crush America between our armies. But we will not abandon you."

China nodded. "I do not trust you, but know this: if you do not show, it will be I who feeds you your own heart, aru. We will meet later. Good night." The screen went dark.

The screen for North Korea also went dark.

"We're moving camp," Prussia began without preamble. "Zhe fighting is getting un-awesomely close."

"Where to?"

"If you don't mind, to your camp, Denmark."

"See you later, then."

"Goodbye." The screen went dark.

Denmark put his head down on the table. This was exhausting…

"Denmark, are you okay?" Iceland asked cautiously.

"I wish Norway was here. He's so much better at this than I am."

Iceland really had nothing to say to comfort Denmark. He wished Norway was there, too.

Rather than saying anything, he shooed the Irelands out (honestly, couldn't they see that he needed to have a private word with Denmark? Gods...) and sat down next to Denmark.

"Denmark, this is a crazy idea."

"I know."

"You won't be any good to Norway if you do something stupid and get yourself killed."

"Does it matter? He's probably dead as it is. America is not always so kind to his prisoners."

That made Iceland angry. "You could ask me, you know! He's not dead! I can feel it; he's my brother! You always assume stuff and make it worse than it is."

"I don't need your accusations, Iceland."

"Norway wouldn't want you moping around like this. Pull yourself together and win this goddamn war or let someone else do it. If we continue following your leadership as it is now, you're going to kill us all. After all, whose idea was it to fight Prussia in the 1860's? Mine? No."

Denmark didn't say anything for a moment. "You know, Little Bro, you're absolutely right. Come on, we need to make plans."

He led Iceland out of the tent.


	31. Chapter 30

America woke up suddenly. Something was wrong. Horribly, incredibly wrong.

Sadly, it felt familiar. At least, he recognized even in his sleepy state, this felling. He had felt it once before.

He leapt out of bed and ran to the phone.

"Mr. President, send troops to Hawaii! Now!"

The president was sleepy-sounding. "What is it, Alfred?"

"Dude, Hawaii. Send troops! Now!"

"Okay, okay, 'm sending troops. Now, what is this about?"

"Pearl Harbor!"

"Alfred, is this one of your nightmares? Because I've told you to see a psychiatrist."

America shuddered involuntarily. Oh, his nightmares were bad, so bad…

No, this was worse. Mainly because it was real.

"No, Dude, it's totally real. Please, just send the Air Force. I swear, it's not a dream."

Something in America's voice must have convinced the president. "Alright, Alfred. I'll send the Air Force. We'll talk in the morning. Good night."

America did not- could not -go back to sleep. He didn't dare check the news, so his just paced around his room, trying not to think.

Finally, eight o'clock came. The phone rang and America ran to pick it up.

"Hello, sir! I was right. Something happened! What happened?"

"Alfred…Pearl Harbor was bombed last night. 400 men were lost and three ships sank. I'm sorry."

"Who-who did it?"

"Alfred-"

"Who did it?" America shouted.

"China and North Korea seemed to have allied themselves with Denmark…"

"We chased them off, though, right? They won't come back?"

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. "Alfred…They're heading north and east, towards-"

"No, not California!"

"I'm sorry, Alfred. We're doing everything we can, but our resources are all in Europe right now…"

"Get them out of there! We need them to defend our home! We need them back here!"

"Alfred, calm down. We can't pull them out right away. It'll be at least a week before the first group gets back. It will be fine. Why don't you go talk to Japan and Russia?"

That sounded like a good idea, actually. Having allies who he could call up and chat with was good. Maybe they would lend him some troops…

"Good bye, Alfred."

"Good bye, Mr. President." America hung up and immediately dialed another number.

"Herro, America-san."

"Japan! How are you?"

"I am werr."

"That's good. Did you hear about Pearl Harbor?"

"Yes. I am sorry for your ross."

"So, the planes are continuing to the mainland and they're gonna try to take California. But I don't have any troops right now. Well, I've got some, but not enough. Can you lend me some?"

"I aporogize, America. My army is busy fighting my brother from where the sun sets." Had that been a trace of blood-thirst in Japan's voice? Probably not, but if so…run.

"Oh, well, um, let me know if you need any help."

"Of course. Good bye, America." Japan hung up.

Well, that left America two options: do nothing (not likely), or call Russia (under different circumstances, even less likely).

He punched in the numbers to Russia's phone. (His own mind said nothing about what it meant that he had memorized Russia's number, but all the fangirls did.)

After three rings, Russia picked up. "Privyet, Amerika."

"Hi, Russia."

"I was hearing about Pearl Harbor. I am sorry for your loss, Amerika."

Hearing Russia, of all nations, say it somehow made it real. Tears began running down America's face. Hot, burning tears of loss, sadness, and something he couldn't name.

"Amerika?" Russia sounded worried for some reason. "Amerika, are you alright?"

America put his hand over the receiver and sniffed loudly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You were wanting to meet with me, da?"

"Oh, yeah…look, I'm not sure if this is a good time…"

"We do not have to talk of strategy. I'll be there soon." Russia hung up.

America sighed. Damn Commie.

He decided that he had to at least look presentable (even though Russia was his ally, it wouldn't do to look weak). He splashed water on his face, combed his hair, and threw on some clean clothes.

The doorbell rang. America sighed again and answered it.

Russia stood there. "Privyet, Amerika. May I come in?"

"Yeah, of course." America stood aside to let the Russian in.

"I am sorry for your loss, Amerika. Is there something I may do for you?"

"No. N-not really." Damn, he couldn't even think about it without crying. He turned away. He couldn't let Russia see him cry.

However, the next thing he knew, he was sitting in Russia's lap.

"Russia, wh-what are you doing?"

"I am giving you a shoulder to cry on. That is the expression, da?"

Well, yes, it was. But America would have preferred someone else's shoulder to cry on. Someone less creepy.

"Amerika, we do not have to speak about this again."

The world didn't have to know that he had cried onto an ex-Commie's scarf? That was all America needed to know. He began sobbing in earnest, for once not caring what Russia thought.

* * *

America finally fell asleep.

The combination of not sleeping the night before (at least, Russia didn't think he had) and the release of so much emotion had led to the American crying himself to sleep.

Russia smiled sadly. His little sunflower looked so peaceful while asleep. But sunflowers did not last forever.

This could not last.

He sighed. He really did have to leave. He didn't want to, but he had important meetings to go to.

Carefully, he picked America up and tucked him into his bed. Gently, he brushed hair and the last trace of tears away, before leaving.


	32. Chapter 31

"The President of the United States Announces Decision Regarding Norway; Ultimatum Delivered

"In a statement to the press late yesterday, the President announced that the capital of Norway, Oslo, will be bombed early next week unless the citizens of Oslo surrender.

"This reporter regards it as amazing that the people of Oslo have managed to keep their city free this long.

"At the same conference, the President said, 'The people of Norway should regard the U.S. as a force for good. After all, the U.S. intends to do away with the monarchy, socialism, and whaling once Norway becomes the fifty-first state in the Union.' He added that this ultimatum was delivered as a response to the bombing of Pearly Harbor last week.

"The citizens of Norway have not yet given their response."

-The New York Times

Author Unknown

3 March, 2056


	33. Chapter 32

Norway knew about torture.

All kinds, actually, but especially those that involved causing the victim to go crazy.

Actually, it wasn't difficult to make someone, even a country, go insane. All you had to do was deprive them of light, sound, food, a sense of time…

There was just a little bit of light in the basement. It was provided by the little glowing orb that followed Norway everywhere.

It was not bright enough to really see anything.

But sound? There weren't any sounds. At least not for a while. (A few days? A week? Norway wasn't sure.) Then he began hearing things.

Scrabbling sounds, like rats…Did America have rats in his basement? Norway hoped not; rats were the most terrifying things in this world.

Then he heard voices. Almost familiar sounding, but he couldn't place them.

The mere possibility of rats terrified him enough that he remained sitting close to the stairs. He didn't dare trying to explore the basement.

How long had he been down there? More than a few days, probably, but due to Canada not showing up to bring food (a good thing, probably, since the rats would be attracted to the smell) and his less-than-regular sleep habits, Norway couldn't be sure.

He knew better than trying to count seconds- people who did that usually got obsessed and went crazy…

So, he really had nothing to do, nothing to occupy his mind. He tried sleeping, but the nightmares proved to be about rats.

So, he sat awake, back to the wall, softly reciting various fairytales to himself.

Eventually, he ran out- even with the Danish and the German and the French thrown in.

So, on to plays. _A Doll's House _first, then…

He had to stop in the middle of Act 4 of _Hamlet_ because his throat was too sore.

That really did leave him with nothing to do, other than listen to his auditory hallucinations. Always fun, listening to what one's brain could make you hear.

Well, not really, when it made you hear all of the various things you had phobias of: rats, your family members dying in various painful ways…

Really, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. For instance, there could have been visual hallucinations.

It was all good until Norway's brain realized that.

A flash of motion caught Norway's eye. Something had moved just outside the circle of light. Something small and quick and…

He jumped up onto a crate, wanting to scream, but his throat hurt too much.

He hated rats. He absolutely could not even think about rats without shuddering. Disgusting, frightening, disease-ridden creatures…

Another flash of movement caught his eye. And another. And another….

Gods! They were everywhere!

He tried to summon his magic, any magic (hell, even using blood magic would be better than rats), but it would not work. Something was very, very wrong.

He wondered if he could break the door down. Probably not; it seemed to be made of iron sheet.

A strange sound seemed to be echoing around the basement. A song? Yes. And it actually sounded rather nice for being "Fly on the Wings of Love."

Where was it coming from?

Wait, why was he singing bad Danish Eurovision songs?

Shaking his head, he switched to something better- "Suomi", by Rybak -and wondered why he'd started singing bad Danish songs. That was so crazy.

* * *

A/N: As I hope everyone knows, rats were the main carriers of the Black Death, which eventually led to Norway being forced to join the Kalmar Union (the first one). This is why Norway has a phobia. OOC-ness is caused by Norway going, to quote my friend, "bat-crap crazy."


	34. Chapter 33

Scotland was rudely awakened one morning by France's unusually loud and impetuous voice.

He sat up.

"Écosse!" What tone was that? Not quite angry, not quite panic… Surprise, maybe?

He got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. France was kneeling in front of the toilet, swigging a cup of water with a bemused expression on his face.

"Good mornin', Franny."

"Good moring, Alistor."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I've just thrown up every meal I have ever eaten."

"So…no…."

"Alistor, I have some news for you." He made a face as he spat some water out. "Je suis enceinte."

Scotland chuckled. "Tha's a hilarious joke, Franny."

France glared. "It's not a joke."

That didn't quite 'click' in Scotland's brain. His magic hadn't worked…had it? It hadn't really been working much of late (perhaps the magic was going out of the world?). Well, at any rate, his magic just refused to work, whereas Baby Brother's continued to ruin perfectly good food.

So it had worked? What a surprise.

Judging by France's facial expression (highly amused and slightly nauseated), all of Scotland's thoughts had been visible on his face.

"I thought you were prepared for zhis…After all, it was your idea…"

"I-I-I didn't think tha'- I wasn't sure-"

France held up one finger, signaling Scotland to hold onto that thought. The reason was clear an instant later when he turned around and continued throwing up. Scotland held France's hair out of the way.

Finally, France sat back. Scotland handed him a cup of water.

"Merci, mon amour. So…?"

Scotland shook his head. "I'm sorry, love. I just didn't… expect this right now."

"And?"

Goodness, France could be so demanding sometimes. "An' I love you, Franny. I'm just worried."

"About?"

"I-I wasn't a very good parent the first time."

France laughed. "Zhat is what you are worried about? I would not. Being a first-time single parent…It is not so easy, non? It will be easier zhis time."

"Je sais, Francis." Scotland kissed France on the forehead.

France smiled. "I love it when you speak French."

"Isn't that why you taught me?"

"Oui." He set the cup down a stood up. "I think zhat's zhe end of zhat for now." He reached for his toothbrush.

Scotland rested his head on France's shoulder and loosely wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's waist. "What would you like for breakfast, love?"

"Le petit-dejeuner? Hm…some toast, I think. And tea, not coffee."

"Will do. Let me go make that fer ya." (Unlike his younger brother, Scotland could actually make toast without burning down the house.)

"You're a wonderful spouse. And you'll be a wonderful father."

Scotland kissed France's forehead again and went downstairs to make breakfast.

After Scotland left, France murmured, "Zhis will be an interesting nine months, non?"

* * *

A/N: In case you couldn't tell, this chapter is the reason I had to put the m-preg warning on this.

And M, you're right; France is really effeminate.


	35. Chapter 34

All of the reports said that the American troops were being mobilized. Moved from Norway, where they were only minorly effective (due to Norwegian Nationalism), back to America, where they were needed to stop the invasion.

It seemed almost like poetic justice to Prussia as he read the reports.

Once the numbers of American troops dropped to critical levels, his army could strike and liberate Norway- after liberating Finland, of course.

Prussia was still confused as to why that wasn't Denmark's plan of action.

The Russian troops on the eastern front were also being moved- south. Probably they would take up positions where the American troops in Normandy had been.

So, it made sense to join Denmark's army, and soon. From there, he could pass on leadership of the army to Denmark and maybe spend more time with his wife.

A knock on the tent pole made him look up. "Ja?"

Sweden entered the tent. "Ya r'dy?"

Prussia slid a handgun into his holster. "Yeah, you?"

Sweden nodded.

"Good. Ve'll need to sneak out of camp. I don't vant Hungary following us."

They left the tent and were almost at the edge of the camp when Hungary caught up to them.

"Prussia, where are you going?"

Prussia closed his eyes, sighed, put on an innocent expression, and turned around. "Hello, Liebe."

"What are you doing?"

"Um…" Why did she have to be so beautiful all the time? "Checking zhe…um…."

"You're going to rescue Finland, right?"

Damn. "Vell, yes…"

"Excellent. I'm going with you."

"Nein. Liza, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Nein, you aren't!"

"Why not, Prussia? I'm pregnant, not crippled."

"You're staying here. And zhat's final."

"Prussia, I can take care of myself."

"Liza, I know zhat. But please, I don't want somezhing to happen to you. If you stay here, I know you'll be safe." He gently pressed a hand to her stomach. (She was starting to show.) "Please, Liza."

"But-"

"Liebe, I promise I'll make it up to you," he said, cupping her chin in one hand, as if to tilt her face up for a kiss.

"Prussia, I don't like being left behind. Anything could happen to you." A single crystalline tear made its way down her cheek.

Prussia wiped it away. "Nozhing vill happen to me. I'm too awesome for zhat."

She smiled sadly. "Promise me that you'll come back?"

"Of course. I will always come back to you." He kissed her gently on the lips.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

He grinned, kissed her cheek one more time, and rejoined Sweden.

As they crossed the space between the two camps, Prussia said, "Sorry about zhat."

"I und'rst'nd. 'F 't w's F'nl'nd, I w'ldn't've l't h'm go, eith'r." ("I understand. If it was Finland, I wouldn't have let him go, either.") Sweden's normally stoic expression had become even more stoic. He was actually a little bit frightening. (Actually, a lot frightening.)

The sun had set completely by the time they got to the Russian camp. It was very quiet. Only a few tents were lit, and even fewer people wandered about. No one questioned Sweden and Prussia, though; a good thing, since it would not have taken a genius to tell that they weren't Russian.

They reached the middle of the camp with no difficulty; however, they reached a conundrum: which tent was Finland in?

"Sveden, which tent?" Prussia whispered.

"A l'ghted 'ne. H's 'fr'd 'f th' d'rk." ("A lighted one. He's afraid of the dark.")

"Zhat's very helpful, Sveden. How are ve supposed to check zhe lighted tents vizzout getting caught?"

Sweden shrugged. "I'll f'ght 'f w' n'd t'." ("I'll fight if we need to.")

Of course Sweden would. Though, if Prussia had been in the same situation, he couldn't deny that he wouldn't do the same.

"Okay, zhen, Vhere do you vant to start?"

Sweden walked casually over to one tent and stuck his head in.

"Oh, sorry, sir," he murmured in perfect Russian before walking to the next tent.

"N't m'wife," he muttered to Prussia by way of an explanation.

They did this about five times before coming to a tent that Sweden disappeared into.

A moment later, he reemerged, carrying Finland, as one might carry a small child. Finland had wrapped his arms around Sweden's neck and was sobbing into his shirt.

"L't's go."

"Ve'll be noticed if you carry him out. He needs to valk, at least until ve get out of zhis camp."

Sweden glared at Prussia, but he nodded. He spoke a few words in a language Prussia could only assume was Finnish. Finland lifted his head and responded, softly and in the same language. Sweden gently set him down.

C'mon, Pr'ssia."

Prussia followed them, acting as a rearguard to ensure that they weren't followed.

About fifty yards outside of the camp, they paused for a moment. No alarms had been raised. They had made it.

Prussia surveyed the surrounding area while Sweden and Finland had a whispered conference (again in Finnish). It ended with Finland standing on tiptoe, kissing Sweden on the cheek, then turning away.

"We should be going back to our own camp, Prussia."

Prussia nodded. "Let's go."

They made it back to their camp without incident.

Once there, Prussia bid Sweden and Finland good night and went to his own tent. At this point, all he wanted to do was climb in bed with his beautiful wife and sleep.

* * *

Sweden led Finland to their tent and made sure he was tucked in and comfortable before leaving.

"Where are you going?" a very puzzled and sleepy Finland asked.

"I…d'dn't know 'f ya w'nt'd m' here t'n'ght." ("I didn't know if you wanted me here tonight.") Sweden actually looked slightly embarrassed.

"Please stay, Ruotsi." Finland yawned and moved over, making room.

Sweden set his glasses down on the table and crawled into bed. He smiled gently when Finland snuggled up next to him, and he wrapped his arms around his wife, wanting to be as close as possible while they were together.


	36. Chapter 35

There were moments of perfect clarity. There were.

Moments not taken up by trying to kill rats that did not exist, moments not spent singing or reciting fairytales. Moments when he did not feel the intrusion of another mind into his own, trying to take over.

They were rare, but they did exist.

In these moments, Norway tried to sleep- he couldn't sleep otherwise, not for fear that when he woke, he would not be himself.

However, he often couldn't sleep even in these moments of clarity. The nightmares kept him up. That, and the persistent ache in his heart.

But during one of these moments, he discovered a tray sitting on a crate. There was a cup of coffee (miraculously still warm), some pancakes, a small pitcher of maple syrup, and some assorted medications. Canada had obviously been here, but when?

It didn't really matter, Norway decided. It had been…a long time since he'd eaten. Still, he forced himself to eat slowly, so he wouldn't make himself sick. It would be a shame to waste those delicious pancakes.

Even so, it did not take long to finish the pancakes, nor to sort out the medications- heart, pain, blood pressure -and to take the appropriate dosage of each. (He checked; there wasn't enough of any of them to give himself a fatal overdose. He wasn't sure what he would have done if there had been.) The coffee was gone shortly after that.

In these moments of perfect clarity, he thought.

Sometimes, he thought about the distant past- better days, when he was young, and strong, and free, without a care in the world beyond making sure his ship didn't sink.

Other times, he thought about a past that was not so distant. A past that had reshaped a care-free boy into an embittered, world-weary man. He had learned the true meaning of betrayal during that time, and what it meant to love someone who did not- could not -love you back.

More often, he thought about the very neat past, and the future. (He did not dare think about the present.) He wondered how his family was, how Normandy was doing. Was Denmark taking good care of her? Denmark was good with children, but Norway found it difficult to trust him after certain events in during the Napoleonic Wars. Then again, Greenland and Faroe Islands had turned out okay, though it was still painful that they refused to have anything to do with him.

He wondered what would happen once this was all over. Surely the world would not just go back to being the same as it was before. It couldn't. After all, the glass vase, once broken, is never quite the same as it was before.

Sighing, he closed his eyes. Maybe his nightmares would let him sleep, just this one time.


	37. Chapter 36

The relocation of Prussia's army went quite smoothly, thanks to the large cargo planes Denmark had been able to supply. There had been just enough to move everyone and everything in a single trip.

The result was that the camp in Normandy had doubled in size and was now only a few miles to the North of the capital, Rouen.

Denmark decided that, since they would be moving on in the morning and they may not see much of each other after that, he would take all of his fellow nations out to a club in Rouen. He wouldn't indulge in alcohol, of course; he had been completely sober since Norway's abduction. But the other…well, they deserved a chance to have a good time.

They all piled into two of the military transports that the army was using, dressed in their formal military uniforms (except Hungary, who was wearing a stunning green dress whose origin was a mystery). Prussia, Hungary, and the Ireland brothers took one; Sweden, Finland, Switzerland, Denmark, and Iceland took the other. (Normandy was far too young to go and was left in the care of one of Denmark's aides.)

Once they got to the club (a small, upscale- and therefore reputable -place called "The Last Dance Café"), they were surprised to see a few familiar faces: England, Austria (who was actually just playing the piano in the corner), France, and Scotland.

"What are you guys doing here?" Denmark asked, surprised.

"We wanted to wish you good luck and give you a jolly send-off," England replied, his cheeks already flushed with alcohol.

"Ah, well, thank you."

"And I'm buying."

"Well, that's even better."

England smiled a bit sadly. "He has gone too far this time. He needs to be stopped. Promise me you'll do that?"

Denmark instinctively knew who England was talking about. "I promise."

"Thank you, Denmark."

* * *

A few hours later, Denmark watched a few couples slow-dance on the dance floor, pressing against each other in silent gestures of love or desperation. Of course, not all of the nations were dancing. Finland and Sweden were at the bar, several stools down. Denmark watched the foolish human girls (and a few guys) hit on each of them. Could they not see that Finland and Sweden, though they had not been married again after 1809, were more in love than any of them could hope to be?

The dancing brought back memories that Denmark was not sure he wanted to recall. Mostly him, dancing with Norway. They both were surprisingly good dancers, once they figured out who was leading. (Then again, was it so surprising? Norway had a good sense of rhythm learned from playing various musical instruments, and Denmark was a hopeless romantic.)

Denmark wished Norway was there, even if they weren't dancing, just so he could enjoy his company.

But Norway wasn't there. Guilt consumed Denmark; it was his fault. But he would right his wrongs, if it killed him.

Denmark watched Prussia lead Hungary off the dance floor. They talked briefly (though it was too far away for Denmark to hear) and, with a kiss, they parted. Hungary took a seat with Austria and Switzerland on the piano bench; Prussia claimed the barstool next to Denmark.

"Hello, Denmark."

"Hi, Prussia."

"How are you holding up? It must be difficult…."

"I- It's strange, you know. Last time I…lost him, I drank. A lot. This time, I'm completely sober. And it's possible to see the world in perfect clarity."

Prussia frowned. "Be careful of clarity. More often zhan not, it will drive you mad."

Denmark scoffed. "It won't! The clarity is great. I can see how each action will affect the next. I- I wish I had been able to see this clearly before." And he knew exactly what he had to do, but he didn't say that.

Prussia shook his head. "Zhere are people who depend on us, and people we depend on. In moments of absolute clarity, vhen you look on zhem, you vill see zheir whole life: zheir past, zheir present, zheir future. And you vill see how zhey die. And no matter how many times you see it, zhe pain does not go avay."

Denmark studied Prussia for a moment. For once, Prussia's barriers (composed almost entirely of self-confidence) were down. He could see the pain, the loss, the sadness, that lurked in his eyes. He hadn't thought that Prussia carried those barriers with him.

Prussia continued in a quieter voice. "It is difficult, so difficult, to let go sometimes. And sometimes, it is difficult to hold on. Do- do you see vhat am I saying?"

"I think so…"

Prussia nodded. "I had lots of time to think, you see… But enough dark thoughts…" He changed the subject, talking instead about this year's cancelled Olympic Games, and what the 2060 Games would be like.

Denmark couldn't help but notice Prussia casting stray glances over to where Hungary was sitting with Austria and Switzerland.

"You don't have to worry about Austria, you know," Denmark interrupted.

"Vhat?"

"Don't you see how he looks at Switzy? He's just being polite towards Hungary."

Prussia considered. "Yes, I suppose you are right."

They talked for a while longer, before Prussia excused himself. Denmark watched him walk to where France and Scotland were sitting and say something to France. France replied, making a few gestures- was France giving him directions? Perhaps.

Denmark would never know.

Scotland came over and sat next to him. "Hello."

"Hey, Scotty."

"Do ye have a plan fer victory?"

"I think so, yes. Well, Norway made one. I'm just following it…"

"It better work."

"I will make it work."

Scotland chewed the end of a plastic straw. Strange…Was he trying to quit smoking? Denmark had always assumed that Ragnarok would come before that happened. Denmark alos noticed that he hadn't been drinking. Something was very wrong with Scotland.

"You trying to quit smoking?" Denmark asked.

"Aye. Franny's goin' t' have a baby. Tryin' t' quit drinkin', too."

"Well, that explained his irritability.

"So, ye see, I've got a family. A growin' family. And if anythin' happens t' that family because ye screwed up…well, tha' won't happen, will it?"

Was Scotland threatening him? "I intend to take the fight to America. I'm moving my forces out of Europe."

"Good." Scotland's voice got softer…well, friendlier, anyway. "How are ye holdin' up?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know about Norway."

"Oh."

"Are ye holdin' on? Or... are ye thinkin' o' letti' go?"

"Of what? Norway? Or the world?"

"Either. Both." Scotland shrugged.

"If he was…gone, for good, we'd know…right?"

Scotland shrugged again. "We didn't find out about Hawaii fer a while after th' fact."

"That's true…So he could be…gone." Denmark felt his blood run cold. What if he was? How could Denmark carry on? "He was the first person I ever met, you know. It's been so long…"

Scotland's voice hardened again. "If ye are lettin' go, do it after ye put America in his place."

Denmark's voice hardened as well. This would have been enough to make most people run away in fear, but not Scotland. Was Scotland implying that he would give up without exacting vengeance for Norway? Had he forgotten the Vikings? "I'll not defeat America in your name, nor in your family's name. This vengeance is mine, my last debt to Norway. I owe him not to credit you, not that you deserve it. And I will not give up until America is helpless before me."

After that? That was a different story. Vahalla, perhaps, would be a nice place to go afterwards.

France msut have noticed the glaring contest between the teo nations, for he came over. "Écosse! Do not bother Denmark."

"Franny-"

"I must speak wiz him. I'll be zhere in a moment."

Scotland nodded and left. Denmark now knew who wore the pants in that strange relationship. He had always wondered.

"I must apologize for his behavior, Denmark. He is just worried."

"It's fine; I understand."

France studied him for a moment. "You love him, don't you?"

"Your husband? No."

France laughed softly. "If I suspected you did, you and I would be having a very different conversation. Non, zhat is not who I speak of."

"Who, then?"

"Are you so dense zhat I need to explain it to you? I speak of Norway, of course."

Denmark took a deep breath. "Yes, I still love him, even after everything."

"He loves you, you know."

"He used to love me," Denmark corrected bitterly. "At least, I think he did. Before I screwed everything up."

"Non," France said, shaking his head. "He still does, wherever his is. Are you so blind that you can't see it? It is so clear, in his eyes, his gestures, the way he speaks to you…"

"Are you sure you're not wrong?"

France sniffed, clearly offended. "If zhere's one thing I know, it is how to deal wiz matters of zhe heart. I am not wrong."

"And then there's another problem."

"When he comes back, I zhink he will see zhe world a bit differently. You still have a chance wiz him…" France smiled softly. "I zhink zhat, no matter what happens between you both, he will keep giving you chances."

"'When'? Don't you mean 'if'?"

France shook his head. "No, I mean 'when'." He smiled sadly. "Fate will make sure of zhat, I zhink." He left Denmark alone with his thoughts until last call.

* * *

A/N: Moral of the story? Prussia is the wisest person in this whole universe, France is a soppy romantic (who's more than a little effeminate), and Scotland wants what's best for his family, even it means being a total d-bag to Denmark.

And just a hint of SwitzerlandXAustria, for your enjoyment.


	38. Chapter 37

A/N: This chapter contains religious!Prussia. Obviously, if you are going to be offended, just skip this chapter.

Also, I'm not particularly religious, so any inaccuracies about how to pray are completely my fault.

* * *

Prussia knelt before the altar.

In older days, it would not have been so surprising to see him there. He had prayed a lot.

He hadn't prayed in a while.

"God, if you're listening…"

He didn't know how to continue. It wasn't that this was a Catholic Church and he had been Protestant for centuries. No, it wasn't that. Had he…forgotten how to talk to God? Was that possible?

"The Serenity prayer says that we must accept the things we cannot change, have the courage to change the things we can, and that we must be wise enough to tell the difference. But-"

He was no longer aware what language he was speaking, Latin or German. Did it matter? Couldn't God listen in all languages?

"But I can't accept seeing my friend tear himself apart. Yet, I don't know how to change that. I- I can't let anyone exist as I did, but I don't know how to stop it."

The candles on the altar flickered.

"Please, God, watch over my wife and my son- it will be a son, won't it?- and Denmark…Don't let Denmark fall into the void. That's not an existence anyone should have, least of all him. He's gone through some much…"

He was rambling, but he didn't care.

"Let him- let everyone- be happy. Let there be peace for once. Please, God."

He continued kneeling for a moment, waiting for something- anything!- to indicate that he'd been heard.

There was nothing.


	39. Chapter 38

Very loud, very insistent knocking woke England.

Slowly, he sat up.

Oh, his head…

And why was it so bloody bright?

The inside of his mouth tasted like something had died there.

The knocking started again, making his head feel even worse.

He really should not have had so much to drink the night before.

Apparently (he didn't quite remember), he had not wanted to try the stairs last night (a good call on his part), so he'd slept on the couch.

Running a hand through his hair, he went to open the door.

America stood there. "Hey."

"Wh-what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you." America blushed lightly. "And I wanted to talk."

"Come on in. Can I offer you some tea, or maybe some food?"

America wrinkled his nose. "No, thanks." He sat on the couch as England went to the kitchen to make tea.

"I really want some advice, Iggy."

"Been hanging out with Japan?"

"What? Oh, some, I guess. But, Iggy, you can help me, right?"

England came out of the kitchen. "Depends, what do you need?"

"An ally."

England froze. Surely America didn't expect…

"Do you want to be my ally, England?"

England didn't know what to say. "Why should I be your ally?"

America licked his lips nervously. "I need help…especially in this theater. Please England."

England's temper got the better of him. "You-you asshat! You can't expect me to ally myself with you after what you've done here! You can't- It doesn't- Norway was- is- my friend, you know!"

"But this is war. We don't have friends on war-"

"I raised you better than that," England hissed sharply. "I am neutral, and neutral I will remain."

"But England, I need-"

"Get out of my house."

Shock registered on America's face. England had never kicked him out of his house before. He had demanded that the younger nation stay, yes, but he had never demanded that he leave.

"Have- have I disappointed you, England?" America asked softly, one foot already out the door.

"Yes. Yes, you have."

"Please forgive me." The door swung shut behind America.


	40. Chapter 39

He lay in the middle of a battlefield on his back, looking up at the sky.

He was covered in blood. Most of it was his own- his throat had been slit and he'd bled out.

But he hadn't died.

He couldn't die.

He could feel the cut close up. He nearly retched.

Two ravens swooped down from the sky and landed on the ground next to him. They cawed and pecked at him until he stood.

Once standing, he looked around. He was alone. He was surrounded by death. Bodies lay scattered in all directions, as far as the eye could see. There was no movement anywhere.

He bent down to retrieve his knife. He wiped the blade off an some dead man's cloak.

One of the ravens picked something up off the ground and lifted into the air. When it was several feet up, it dropped the object. It fell, end-over-end, catching the few remaining rays of sun.

Instinctively, he caught it. He hissed as it burned his hand, but he held onto it. He examined it: a silver cross. He recognized it. No wonder it burned.

It fell to the ground.

As he looked up again, he realized that something was wrong with his vision. It lacked depth.

He reached up, gently feeling his right eyelid- at least, where his right eyelid should have been. His fingertips met leather- a leather eye patch.

When had he lost his eye? Why couldn't he remember it?

What was his name?

Closing his remaining eye, he thought.

Sigmund. His name was Sigmund.

Power, raw power, rippled through his body. The blood…it contained this power…

Something intruded in his thoughts.

"Are you, are you coming to the tree? Stranger things have happened here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree?" someone sang. It was not his own voice, Sigmund was sure. He could not carry a tune like that to save his life.

But who was it, then? There was no one else.

His surroundings changed in an instant.

He recognized this place. A basement. Lukas feared it, but Lukas feared many things. Like the blood that gave Sigmund his power.

Whatever. Sigmund was glad that Lukas was gone. Lukas and his weaknesses made him want to retch.

"But they are part of you," a voice whispered.

"Shut the Hell up, Erik."

"I am part of you, too."

That voice, Erik's, was entirely too cheerful.

Now, what had happened to the singing? It seemed to be gone…for now.

If it came back…well, the person singing could be a threat.

Sigmund still held his knife. He carved a small symbol into his thumb. The pain was slight, but delicious, and the sight of his own blood welling up was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in a long time.

He used his blood to draw a circle around himself. Blood was the strongest thing he knew; it would protect him.


	41. Chapter 40

Denmark sat in one of the few tents that were still up, reading reports.

The first group would reach the Irish coast by late afternoon tomorrow; the second group would get there early the following morning.

He wished he had more pilots. As it was, he barely had enough, and they were going to be exhausted long before they reached the U.S. coast.

Well, he could change their shifts a bit after everyone was off the mainland.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Would the paperwork never stop coming? "Come in."

Prussia came into the tent, though not without looking over his shoulder nervously. "I need to ask you a favor."

Denmark sighed. "I'll do what I can. What is it?"

Prussia handed him a document. Denmark scanned it quickly. "Am I understanding this?"

Prussia nodded.

Denmark frowned. "Are you sure? 'Request to prohibit persons from entering battle….' That's fairly serious, especially without a good reason."

"I have an awesome reason."

"Let's hear it."

Prussia took a deep breath. "As you know, Hungary's going to have a baby."

"Yes…"

"I don't vant her fighting. At all."

"She**can** take care of herself."

"Denmark! I'm asking you, man-to-man, to take my side! I-I don't know what I would do if somezzing happened to her…Please, you understand, don't you?"

Of course Denmark had understood. The central part of his nature, the driving essence within him, drove him to protect those he loved. It had always been thus. He sighed again. "Alright. I'll approve it. But you're going to tell Hungary."

Prussia nodded. "Of course. I expected no less of you. Zhank you, Denmark."

Denmark scribbled his signature at the bottom of the document. "Good luck telling her."

Prussia nodded again. "I zhink I'll need it."


	42. Chapter 41

Canada held tightly onto the sides of the tray he was bringing to Norway. He wasn't intending to stay long; Norway seemed to have gone off the deep end and it was kind of frightening. A lot frightening, actually.

He unlocked the door and stepped in.

What he saw really worried him: Norway, sitting on the ground, looking at the ring of blood that surrounded him as if he had no idea where it had come from. There were streaks of blood on the wall, but they had been there for some time.

Norway looked up, blinking at the sudden light. He looked haggard; there were dark circles under his eyes and his cheek bones stuck out too far. (Canada did bring food several times a day, but sometimes Norway, in in his state, went days without eating.) The way he sat made it look like he had an extra shadow.

Canada set the tray down and turned around.

"Vinland! Stay!"

Without thinking, Canada turned back around. That had been the voice of command, and it was not to be reckoned with.

He climbed down the stairs and sat on a nearby box.

"Ah. Vinland, you've grown up." He studied Canada.

Canada watched Norway. There seemed to be something wrong with his eyes; they weren't the same color: no longer blue, but red. It was really creepy. "I'm going to go now…" He stood.

Norway grabbed his wrist. Goodness, but he was strong. "You will not." Cold fingers pushed Canada's sleeve up. "Yes, I thought you had tried it, too."

Canada wrenched his wrist away, tugging on his sleeve.

"There's no need to be ashamed. We've all tried it." Norway tugged his own sleeve up. Three parallel scars ran across his wrist. "Rather, Lukas tired it that way. But it didn't work."

"What are you talking about?"

"We've all tried to get away from this world. It is the nature of immortal things, is it not? But it doesn't work, not for us." Norway pointed to a very faint scar across his throat. "I tried it too. Even this did not work. I knew it wouldn't, but I had to try, didn't I?"

"Wh-who are you? This is not how Norway acts!"

"I believe you mean, 'This is not how Lukas acts.' I am Sigmund."

"I don't underst-"

"What is there to understand? I am merely Norway's better half, more experienced in the types of magic Lukas will not use, braver, stronger, better."

"But-"

"You disappoint me, Vinland. Still, it is not your fault. If I had been allowed to raise you…well, you would be a much different person."

"Who is this 'Vinland'?"

"Silly boy. Doesn't know his own name." Norway (Sigmund?) shook his head. "Still, you were quite young when we found you, perhaps too young for you to remember. It's a shame we had to leave. Lukas thought it a good idea- and this was probably his only good idea, mind you -to protect you. And that's why-"

"Nobody noticed me!" Holy maple syrup!

A change seemed to come over Norway. His eyes changed color, going from red to green (an even greener green than England's eyes), and his facial expression went from haughty to playfully flirty.

"Ignore him. He's crazy."

Canada wasn't sure what to say. He was pretty sure that having three personalities was crazy, though. "Who are you?"

"Erik." He winked. Shocking!

"**What** are you?"

"I am the third side of Norway's currently fractured personality. You might say that I'm the fun one." Another wink.

"But how-?"

"Sigmund was created long ago, when Lukas stopped using blood magic. I am a more recent addition to the voices in Norway's head. Anyway, Lukas locked Sigmund away using this device." An image of a cross pin floated above Norway's hand. "When it was lost, Sigmund was able to take over."

"I-I really need to talk to Lukas."

"I'm afraid his not here right now. But I wouldn't mind talking to you." Another wink.

"Wh- when will he be…back?"

Norway shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. Perhaps next time you come here. Of course, I'm sure I could keep you entertained until he does return…"

"Um…no, I really need to go…I hope you enjoy the food…" He practically ran up the stairs.

"If you stayed, that's not all I would enjoy."

Canada locked the basement door behind him.

* * *

A/N: If you wanted to know, Sigmund is loosely based off my boyfriend's personality. Thankfully, my boyfriend doesn't use blood magic (at least, I don't think he does). Erik could also be called Flirty!Norway. I think I'll have to write some less serious stories involving those two.

And yes, Erik is totally hitting on Canada.


	43. Chapter 42

Finland stood in the bow of a destroyer. He didn't know that ship's name, but it was irrelevant anyway.

He had never sailed much. He hadn't been a Viking, like the Scandinavians. He'd never had much interest in the sea; it hadn't nurtured him the way they had been nurtured.

Still, the sea, the open ocean, was beautiful. The Atlantic was very different from the Baltic Sea…

His thoughts were interrupted by a large shadow falling over him. He looked over his shoulder.

Sweden.

"Hello, Ruotsi. I didn't expect to see you here."

Sweden shrugged. "B'st pl'ce t' w'tch." ("Best place to watch.")

Watch what? Finland was afraid to ask.

Sweden took a spot next to Finland at the railing. He closed his eyes as a sudden gust of wind ruffled his hair. "C'n' ya f'l th' sea c'llin' ya, T'no?" ("Can't you feel the sea calling you, Tino?")

No, he couldn't. It had never called to him, not the way it had called to the Scandinavians.

"Do you think Norway is alright, Ruotsi?"

Sweden turned and studied Finland for a moment. (Most people would have called it "glaring at" or "staring at," but Finland knew better.) "Yes."

"But why… How do you know?"

Sweden lifted Finland's hand and set it against his chest, right over his heart. Finland felt the steady beat of Sweden's heart. "Th's 's how I kn'w." ("This is how I know.")

"You would feel it?"

"Yes." Sweden looked back over the sea. "Th' w'rld w'ld f'l 't." ("The world would feel it.")

"I hope he's ok."

Sweden wrapped Finland up in his arms. "H' 's." ("He is.")

Finland rested his head against Sweden's chest for a moment. "Ruotsi, do you think Denmark's plan will work?"

"P'rh'ps." ("Perhaps.")

That was not very reassuring.

"T's g'ttin' l'te." ("It's getting late.")

"I think I'll watch the sun finish setting. You can go to bed; I'll be there in a moment."

"I'll w't." ("I'll wait.")


	44. Chapter 43

Denmark lay on his back, trying to sleep.

This was the first opportunity to sleep he'd had in over a week. And yet, he could not. What irony.

At least he no longer had to worry about Iceland. He'd left three companies to clear out American troops and help reestablish order.

When he left Iceland, the boy was healthier than he had been in nearly two years.

Healthy enough the extract a promise out of Denmark.

A knock on the cabin door caused him to look up. "Come in."

A tiny, four-year-old child, dressed in a pink night-gown, came into the cabin. "Dan-Dan, I had a nightmare."

He sat up. "Come here, Sweetheart."

She climbed into his lap. He noticed the tearstains on her cheeks. "Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?"

"There was a man with a funny little mustache. It made me laugh a little. But then-" She shook her head, refusing to go on.

"Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

She looked up. "Could I please, Dan-Dan?"

"Of course, Sweetheart. Otherwise, I might get scared," he said with a wink.

She giggled. "But you're not afraid of anything."

That wasn't true.

Abruptly, she said, "I miss Papa."

"I miss him too."

"But you'll get him back, right?"

"Of course, Sweetheart. We'll bring him back."

She nodded. "I know."


	45. Chapter 44

Canada visited Norway often. He couldn't say why, exactly; Norway's different personalities (especially Sigmund) frightened him.

Yet, he felt sorry for him.

But his stories (their stories?) were interesting. Especially when Erik and Sigmund got into heated arguments with each other.

Canada hadn't gotten the opportunity to "meet" Lukas yet.

That opportunity came one day when Canada brought food and coffee (that was one thing all of Norway's personalities could agree on: coffee).

Norway sat, as he often did, with his back to the wall. He was still gaunt, his eyes were still sunken, his cheekbones still stuck out too far.

But he only had one shadow, and his eyes were blue. His face bore a somber expression.

"Lukas?" Canada asked cautiously.

Norway nodded. "Canada." He said it hesitantly, as if he wasn't sure if his vocal cords would work.

Canada handed him the coffee cup. Norway took it and sipped. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you."

Canada nodded and sat down. "There's news from Europe, if you want to hear it."

"Yes. Please."

"Denmark's sailing across the Atlantic. We don't know where he's planning to strike yet."

Norway's eyes brightened. "A rescue mission, then?"

Canada shrugged. "We don't know."

"Well, why am I being held? Have I been ransomed, or…"

Canada shook his head. "My brother does not remember that you're here half the time."

"Danmark will be victorious."

"Perhaps."

"How- how does he look? Does he look alright?"

Canada had not missed the slight flush in Norway's cheeks. "I don't know." He paused, considering. "Does he mean something to you?"

Norway's eyes flashed angrily. "That is my affair and none of yours."

Canada shrugged. "I don't know why you hide it. It's not as if it's a big secret."

"There is nothing between us anymore! It was over and done with a long time ago."

"Perhaps. Yet, you ask after him and no one else." Canada was no fool; besides, France had raised him.

"We have a lot of history together; I merely wanted to make sure that he hasn't offed himself yet."

Canada wondered if Norway always made his hands into fists like that when he lied. "Stop lying to me, Lukas. I'm trying to help you."

"I am **not** lying."

"I'll believe that when pigs fly. Come on, Norway, you know I won't tell anyone else."

"Fine! Fine, I still have…feelings….for Danmark. I know I shouldn't. I know I'll get hurt, but I do. And I think I always will…Are you happy now?"

Well, that just confirmed one of the biggest World Meeting myths ever. When this was all over, Canada would have quite a tidy sum of money to collect.

Norway turned away from Canada. "Leave."

"What?"

"You heard me. Leave, please."

Canada turned and started up the stairs.

A wordless scream caused him to turn back around.

Norway was gripping at his shirt, right over where his heart was. His head was thrown back, screams of agony and anguish ripping from his throat. His entire body was spasming uncontrollably, as if he was having a seizure.

Canada ran over, trying to restrain Norway before he hurt himself.

Long minutes passed. Norway's throat gave out before his seizure ended.

It did finally end.

Canada let go of Norway as the older nation collapsed. Tears streamed down Norway's face.

"What happened?"

Norway could only shake his head and point to his heart.

Blood marked the fabric of his shirt.

Gently, Canada unbuttoned Norway's shirt, exposing a fresh cut that crossed his heart. Examining it closely, Canada could see places where the cut went all the way to the bone.

_What happened?_ Canada thought as he ran to gather supplies. That cut would need stitches, and he didn't think Norway had been capable of inflicting that on himself, accident or not.

He came back as quickly as he could, his arms full of medical supplies. He set them down on a nearby box.

Norway's crying had escalated into full-on sobbing, his shoulders shaking violently.

"Norway, I need to give you a few stitches. That's a nasty cut you've got, and it needs to be closed."

Norway nodded.

Canada lifted the battlefield anesthesia machine. It was very helpful, especially for the purpose it was designed for, as it was very light weight and was composed of only a face mask and a canister that held the vaporized anesthesia.

He started to press the mask against Norway's mouth and nose, but Norway pushed it away.

"No," he said hoarsely. "I want to be awake."

"This is going to hurt."

"Nothing can hurt me now."

With a shrug, Canada set about cleaning and stitching the wound. Norway sat through it, his tears slowing, but he did not even flinch as the needle was pulled through his flesh.

All the while, Canada tried to think about what could have caused this. He knew, but it was somewhere in the back of his mind….He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

As he cut the thread on the last stitch, it came to him. "Merde!"

"What?"

"My brother bombed Oslo today!"

Norway's face drained of color. He turned away from Canada. "My heart knows this."

"I am so, so sorry." Norway looked lost; broken, almost, except that seemed so out of character. "He shouldn't have done that." Gently, he pressed a large bandage over Norway's stitches.

Norway said nothing. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes, and thy dripped down his face. He made no move to wipe them away.

Eventually, Canada packed up and left.

* * *

A/N: So, this is the last chapter that I've already written. And I've got writer's block. If you have suggestions for the next few chapters, that would be great. (For the record, I already know how this is going to end. I just need help getting there.)


	46. Chapter 45

"Romania!"

Romania's head snapped up.

The door to his room (well, it was not actually his room; it was the room he had been given during his days as part of the Eastern Bloc, but anyway.) opened.

Russia stood in the doorway. That was like Russia: he didn't bother with the privacy of people living under his roof.

"Romania, have you seen the outcome of this war?"

That had been Romania's task: find out everything he could about what might happen.

"I haven't been able to see anything, Mr. Russia."

"Really?" Russia still stood in the doorway menacingly. How far away was the window? (And was it still painted shut?)

Romania nodded. He had tried everything, from mirrors to Tarot cards to crystal balls. And nothing had worked.

"Will you look right now?"

"I won't see anything."

"Try. For me." Russia smiled.

Romania nodded. He knew he wouldn't see anything, but if trying meant that he wouldn't have to jump through the window to escape Russia's Magic Cane, it would be well worth it.

"Have a seat, please, and turn off the lights." Romania gestured to the seat across from him.

Russia shook his head. "I will stay here." He did, however, turn the lights off.

Romania turned from Russia. He didn't much like Russia watching him, but he was not given a choice.

Words were spoken over the crystal ball in front of him. Lights swirled within it, coloring the room with many shades of light.

The lights suddenly when out all at once, leaving the room dark.

"There is nothing to see, Mr. Russia."

"You are not trying hard enough. Try again."

"But there is nothing to see-"

"Perhaps you are not understanding me. But I am knowing something that will make you understand." He turned, reaching for something out in the hallway; Romania couldn't see what, exactly.

When he saw what (who) Russia held, all of the blood drained from his face.

Russia held his lead pipe against Bulgaria's collar bones. Bulgaria was gagged and his hands were bound behind his back. He struggled fruitlessly against Russia's iron grip.

"Russia, please, let Bulgaria go! I will do whatever you want. Just, let him go. He has nothing to do with this."

"Look gain." Russia used his normal calm voice. "And this time, I hope you will be finding something, da?"

That was a threat if Romania had ever heard one. He cast another glance at Bulgaria, who was shaking his head violently.

Romania put his hands back on the crystal ball. Again he chanted words over it.

Something had changed in the last few minutes. Perhaps he was imagining it, or perhaps his will was sufficient to see a future that did not want to be seen.

Either way, the lights swirled within the ball as they had before, but this time, they materialized into something: an image.

It was blurry, but Romania could make out what seemed to be a man, kneeling in front of a grave. It was a freshly dug grave, the dirt covering it bare. Romania could not read the headstone, but he could tell that it switched between two names. Likewise, the flowers in the man's hands changed between something yellow and something purple.

The way Romania saw it, there were two possible outcomes, and they both ended in someone dying. But who?

"There will be a death."

"Who will die?"

"I don't know. I can't…see that."

"Ah, that is too bad for your…friend, isn't it?" Russia pulled a gun out and pressed it against the side of Bulgaria's head. "Who will die, Romania?"

"I can't see that! I can only see what it lets me!"

"Are you sure? Well, let us think about this logically. Tell me about your vision."

Romania did, leaving nothing out. When he got to the part about the flowers, Russia frowned. "They switch between yellow and purple flowers, da?"

"Yes, Mr. Russia."

"If our dear, beloved Amerika were going to…pass from this world, I would leave beautiful golden sunflowers at his grave, da?"

"I-I suppose you would, Mr. Russia." Romania really wanted Russia to put the gun away, and maybe let Bulgaria go…

"But if Mr. Norway died, what do you suppose Mr. Denmark would put on his grave?"

"I don't know-"

"I am being disappointed by you, Romania. Are you not good friends with Mr. Norway? And yet you do not even know his national flower." Russia flicked the safety off the gun.

Romania suddenly remembered something Norway had once said. "Purple heather! They're purple heather!"

"Yes…so, one of these players will fall, and that will be the end of our little chess game, da?"

"I-I guess…" Really? Chess metaphors?

"Very well." Russia pushed Bulgaria into the room and stalked away.

Romania jumped up and ran to catch Bulgaria. It didn't really work, though; they both ended up toppling to the floor, Bulgaria landing on top of Romania. Romania pushed himself up and, with trembling fingers, untied first the gag and them the ropes binding Bulgaria's hands.

"Bul? Bulgaria, are you-?" His fingers traced the delicate structure of Bulgaria's face, pausing when they encountered the bump on his forehead where Russia had pressed the gun.

"I'm fine, Romania." It was said gently, as if to reassure.

Romania gently massaged Bulgaria's wrists. They were bruised. His fingers were cold; Romania wanted to restore circulation. "I am so, so sorry that this happened to you. This is my fault-"

"It's not."

Romania brushed a soft, lingering kiss against the other man's lips. "I don't know what I would do without you."

"You always were a romantic."

"Is that such a bad thing, Bul?"

"Well, no…"

Romania interrupted him. "He was rarely able to stay on the same subject for very long.) "Now, let me help you up. You can go sit on the bed and I'll make you some tea and maybe a healing potion…"

Bulgaria made a face, probably at the prospect of a healing potion. "I'm alright. I don't need a healing potion."

"You're alright when I say you're alright. Now, can you stand? Good, I'll have that potion for you in a minute."

Bulgaria sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother."

* * *

A/N: I'm back! The beast that is Writer's Block has been slain!

This chapter was a pain to write. Mainly, I don't know much about Bulgaria or Romania, so have my apologies for horrible OOC-ness.

I'll have a new chapter up as soon as I finish it. It will be...interesting, to say the least.


	47. Chapter 46

He stared blankly at the two people who sat in front of him and wondered why they were trying to keep him alive.

Well, technically, they, all three of them, were the same person, and he supposed that might be the reason.

But since they were all the same person, why could they not understand his desire to die?

"Lukas? Lukas, snap out of it!"

The sharp voice of the man on his left brought him back to the present. The man wore red and black, and had messy hair. His name was Sigmund.

"I don't want this life anymore."

"That is not an answer you can give me."

"But I just did. You forget that I may do as I please; it is my body."

"You have said that you don't want it anymore."

Lukas made a disgusted sound. "That is not what I said, Sigmund. Stop putting words in my mouth. Besides, you'd rather see me dead, wouldn't you?"

The man on his right, who wore green and was named Erik, spoke up. "If you die, we all die."

Lukas continues speaking to Sigmund. (Whatever, Erik was about as helpful as a dead cat. Less, actually, as you couldn't use him for vulture hunting.) "But if that wasn't so, if you could kill me without killing yourself, you would, wouldn't you? You would not hesitate a second."

Sigmund pursed his lips. "I admit that, were circumstances different, I would try to kill you, and I would succeed. However, circumstances are as they are and I may not. Therefore, I will protect you with every ounce of my being. After all, as much as we may hate each other, we do share a body."

"I am looking at you right now. You are no longer in my head," Lukas pointed out.

"Your subconscious is making you hallucinate us, so that your conscious will not think that you are going crazy."

"Obviously, I have."

"Well, yes. But let's change the subject, shall we? Name a time when you were happy. Truly happy."

"2009. I won Eurovision."

"Really? Interesting…"

"When did you become a therapist, Sigmund? I thought your hobbies included cutting people up and drawing pretty pictures with their blood."

"Oh, please, it's not as if you never did that. In fact, that's where I got it from. But anyway, name another happy memory."

Lukas sighed. "The first Viking raid."

"Ah, yes…"

Lukas glared. He was actually quite good at it, having spent centuries perfectly his glare.

Sigmund continued. "What about 1945? Were you happy then?"

"Why should I have been? I had to rebuild, recover, and that is a difficult thing to do, bed-ridden as I was. You know this."

"You can't lie to me! I was there. I know how you felt when he was kneeling at your feet! I know how you considered killing him, and the manner in which you would have done it. I know the power that flowed through your veins- our veins."

The mere mention of that event- his enemy for five long years, kneeling at his feet, begging for forgiveness and mercy -made his blood boil. Power raced through his veins, gathering at his fingertips in an effort to be released.

Sigmund continued in a low voice. ""You knew that his blood would have been powerful. His kind always is. You could have conquered all who wronged you with that power. You could have had the world, and there would have been no one to stop you."

Lukas nodded. He was not actually paying attention to Sigmund; rather, he was thinking that the power at his fingertips was more than enough to kill Sigmund.

"Imagine, Lukas! If we survive this, you can have America kneeling at our feet. You could be his executioner, and with his blood, you could rule the world. That is why you must hang on."

That brought Lukas back to the present. America's blood would be far more powerful that Germany's.

Erik put a hand on Lukas's shoulder. "You're bleeding."

"Does it matter? I want to abandon this life anyway." He still did. His heart ached too intensely for him to want to continue living.

"After all I have promised you? Even now that you know what we can do together! You have betrayed yourself, Lukas!"

"And in doing so, I have saved the world from your tyranny. Is that not a fair trade, Siggy?"

"Do not call me that!"

"What are you going to do? You are weak, Siggy. You know what I think? I think that you don't have the courage to die."

"How can you say that? I have stared death in the face more times than you can count."

"Not your own death. My death and the death of humans, but never your own. I have faced my own death, and I have laughed at it. I am not afraid to die. Now if you'll excuse me," Lukas hissed as he stood, "I'd like to be alone when I do this."

Erik jumped up. "You're bleeding, Lukas."

"I am aware of that."

Sigmund made a disgusted sound and vanished.

"Sit. Down."

Lukas did so, not out of fear, but because he had no choice on the matter.

Erik unbuttoned his shirt and removed that soaked bandage. "It's infected."

"Well, I was planning to go to Helheim as is, so…"

"You will be reborn. You must know that." He pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some clean cloth. "This will hurt."

Lukas gritted his teeth as Erik began. The cool alcohol felt good against the fevered flesh surrounding the wound, but not so good in the wound itself. "I know that."

"Then why let yourself die? Why not survive, as you always have?"

"I see no other way out."

"There is always a way out."

"Is there?"

"You have survived this long."

Lukas looked away. "I do not understand you. Or Sigmund, for that matter."

"You should. We share memories."

"Yet I don't." He paused, wincing as Erik was a bit too rough in his cleaning. "Can you explain him to me? Why does he hate me?"

"He doesn't hate you. He hates it when you are weak. His purpose, at least in part, is to protect you. His job is easier when you are strong."

"How does he protect me?"

"He keeps you from delving too deeply into things you cannot handle. Blood magic, for instance. That is a dangerous thing to play with. But also, so long as you had him locked away in the back of your mind, you had conquered something. You are a conqueror, Lukas, and being conquered did not suit you. He's trying to keep you sane."

"It didn't really work."

"He cares about you."

"We share a body. Other than that, there is no basis for a friendship."

"It's true nonetheless. It is important to him that you remain strong and unbroken."

"Because that means that he is strong and unbroken."

"He is not quite as selfish as you think."

"Explain, then."

"I will not. But I would like to explain my purpose."

"I was wondering about that. Sigmund acts the way I used to, before his creation. But you…I have never acted like you."

"I am something that you wish you could be. Actually, though, I'd like to discuss this man." An image appeared in Lukas's mind.

Denmark.

He flinched. "I do not wish to discuss this man."

"You have feelings for him."

"He betrayed me."

"I'm not hearing you say no."

"I hate him."

"You cannot lie to me."

"I am not lying."

Erik smiled. "Stop lying tome, Lukas. I think this man may be your salvation, though I do not know how."

"My desire to strangle him will keep me alive."

"Perhaps." Erik seemed doubtful. "Anyway, keep him in your thoughts. He is important." He pulled out a fresh bandage and applied it to Lukas's wound. "There is another reason to hang onto this life. You have children."

"Most of them will have nothing to do with me."

"That will change." He sighed. "We will not see each other again, I think. Take care of yourself."

He stood and walked away.

Lukas wondered if he really was going crazy. Probably.


	48. Chapter 47

"Sir! Urgent news from Copenhagen!"

"What is it?" Denmark snapped. He was rather grouchy. He hadn't slept in days, he ate very little, and he thought he might go blind from all the report-reading he had to do. "This better be important, or so help me God, I will-"

"Sir, Oslo was bombed yesterday."

Denmark couldn't process that immediately. "What?"

"Oslo was bombed by the Americans. Nearly half of the city was destroyed."

"Oh God. Oh God, what has that bastard done!" Denmark's mind refused to process that fact completely. Half the city, gone? Didn't seem possible. But if it was… "The source, is it reliable?"

"One of ours, sir. In a scout plane. Saw everything. Barely made it across the Skagerrak with his life."

Denmark put his head down on his desk. This couldn't be happening, not now. They were so close to their goal- he could see the coast of Maine from here - and then this had to happen. Was it still a rescue mission? Or would he now have to rain down vengeance on America? He swallowed. "Have the people of Oslo surrendered?"

"No, sir. They refused the offer."

Norway must be alive, then. Right?

With a gesture, Denmark dismissed the messenger.

As soon as the door closed behind the departing man, Denmark threw a file across the room as hard as he could.

How could this be happening? So close to his goal, and then this! What was he supposed to do now? Should he turn back and offer help to the beleaguered city of Oslo? Or should he continue as he had planned?

What would Norway do?

His first reaction was that he should go give aid to the people of Oslo.

But…that would mean giving up the war in America. And he couldn't do that. He'd promised China that he would not be abandoned.

He was a man of his word.

But was there a third option? He could not wage a long, drawn-out war against America now.

He hadn't started his attach yet. There was time to revise the plan.

America's capital was just down the coast.

An eye for an eye.

The path he must take was at his feet. He could see it clearly, though he could not see where it ended.

Suddenly invigorated, he began scrawling new orders on a sheet of paper. There was much to do.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for all of your lovely reviews! Virtual cookies for everyone!


	49. Chapter 48

Canada seethed.

He was not usually one to be terribly angry- he had a slow temper- but his brother had gone too far this time.

Trying to kill a fellow nation? That was as contemptible as drowning a bag of kittens. Especially when said nation had not provoked you.

He ambushed his brother in his study.

"Alfred."

America looked up, an innocent smile on his face. "Hey, Bro. What's up?"

"What's up? What's up? You nearly killed Norway, that's what's up!"

America shuffled some papers on his desk. "This is war, Canada. There are casualties. I thought you were old enough to understand that."

"It is not okay to kill another nation!"

"At this point, Canada, we will be lucky if we do not end up killing half the countries in Europe. Denmark plans to strike the east coast soon, you know. And when they are gone, the land will need someone to look after it. That person will be me."

"You ambitious bastard!" Canada was literally shaking with rage. "The whole world is not your -your playground! They will abandon you if you keep going like this! Is that what you want?"

"You wouldn't leave me, would you, Canada?"

Canada looked away. "I want out."

"No, you don't mean-!"

"I do mean that. I won't be part of this anymore. I'm leaving."

"Leave then! Abandon me. England already did."

"Perhaps he has more sense than you." Canada was almost out of the room when he turned back for an instant. "I need to go pack some things, but then I will leave you to your…machinations. Good bye, Brother."

As Canada stalked away, America yelled, "I'm glad you finally grew a backbone, Canada! But guess what? I don't need you anymore than I ever needed England!"

He received no reply.


	50. Chapter 49

After leaving his brother, Canada ran to the basement. His conscience told him that he had to say farewell to Norway before leaving.

He unlocked the basement door and ran down the steps.

"Norway?" he called.

"I am here," came the reply as Norway stepped out of the shadows. His voice was dark, sinister; his eyes glowed red. Canada would be dealing with Sigmund today. (He would have preferred Erik, or you know, the original, Lukas.)

"Why have you come back?" Sigmund continued. His eyes flashed brighter with some unidentifiable emotion.

"I am leaving. I just came to tell you first…"

While Canada had been talking, Sigmund stalked closer until they were nose-to-nose. "You will not be leaving as soon as you think."

"What do you m-?"

He was rudely interrupted when he was shoved up against a nearby wall. Sigmund's finger's dug into the soft flesh on either side of his windpipe.

"In fact, it is highly unlikely that you will be leaving at all. Unless you can give me a good reason why I should let you live?"

Canada's windpipe was sufficiently cut off that he could not voice a reply.

"You see, Vinland, where I come from, we do not believe in letting our enemies live. A useful practice, as they are not around to stab you in the back. Have you heard the tale of Eric Bloodaxe? Perhaps my favorite of my kings, as well as the bloodiest. He killed his seven half-brothers to secure his position as my king."

Canada's vision began growing dim around the edges. He tried (unsuccessfully) to squirm out of Sigmund's grip.

"Calm down. It will be easier if you relax." He sighed. "Of course, I can't kill you this way. But there are ways to ensure that a nation stays dead. For instance," he purred, his free hand moving to rest over Canada's heart, "I could tear your heart out. Or I could do as the Egyptians did." He hooked his index finger and mimed something that involved twisting and pulling. (It looked incredibly painful.) He sighed again. "I would rather not kill you. After all, you can see my companion, can you not?"

A fairy of indeterminate gender (well, Canada couldn't tell; it looked like a guy, but it was wearing a tutu. A pink tutu.) appeared for a second, looked around, then promptly disappeared. Canada vigorously nodded.

"Yes, I thought you might be able to see things that normal people cannot. It's a shame that that fact will not save you, as there are too few like us."

"Stand down." A new voice joined the conversation. It had a very identifiable Southern twang.

Sigmund was startled enough that his grip on Canada's throat loosened; not much, but enough to allow Canada to breathe.

"Who the Hell are you?" Sigmund hissed.

Canada got a good look at the strange. He looked a good deal like America. The main differences were that, instead of glasses, the newcomer wore cowboy boots and a bolo tie. He was vaguely familiar.

"I am William Lee Lloyd, embodiment of the Confederacy."

"And what do you want, Mister Lloyd?" Sigmund asked, mimicking the other man's accent slightly.

"Why, I want to know what is going on in my basement."

"This is your basement?"

"Evah since 1865. I dare say that my northern counterpart has forgotten about me."

"Yes…I remember mention of one such as you. You should not be alive."

"Yet here I am. Now, why don't you let the Canadian go? Then perhaps I can show you some good ol' Southern hospitality."

"Why should I let him live?"

"Because I think it's awful rude to string up guests."

With a glare, Sigmund let Canada fall to the ground.

William Lee Lloyd offered a hand to help him up. Dazed, Canada took it and stood.

"Mistah Williams, I think it best if you leave this basement, lock the door, and don't come back," Mister Lloyd whispered.

Canada nodded. "Thank you for saving my life."

"We are brothers. And blood is thicker than water."

Canada nodded and left the basement. He was so done with all of this. Maybe, since he was now neutral, he could visit other neutral nations. England maybe. Or France.

He turned, after locking the door a final time, and left.

He did not look back.

* * *

After the door closed, Sigmund turned to study Mr. Lloyd. "Why did you stop me?"

"The smell of decomposing flesh was not one I wanted in my living space."

"Fair enough." He paused, licked his dry lips. "I have been down here for…I do not know how long, but I have not seen or heard you before…"

"Near eight months. And, ya see-"

"Eight months!"

"You were not in your right mind. I …pardon me, but it gets quiet down here, as you know, so I play my banjo from time to time. You may have heard me play, but thought you were hallucinating."

"But why haven't I seen you?"

"It is a large basement. And I wanted to keep my continued existence secret. As you said, I should not be alive.

"Then why show yourself now?"

"These times are a-changing. It is time for me to be part of the world again."

Sigmund shrugged. "It is not my place to say."

"How 'bout I play you a song?" Mr. Lloyd asked after brief, awkward silence.

Sigmund nodded. "That would be… nice. It has been far too long since I heard music." Lukas's insane warbling (and Erik's inane humming) did not count.

Mr. Lloyd reached for the banjo slung across his back. Settling it in his lap, his picked one string, then another, adjusting the knobs at the top of the instrument as he went. Finally, he began singing and playing:

"Once I rose above the noise and confusion  
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion  
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high

Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man  
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man  
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming,  
I can hear them say

Carry on my wayward son,  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more."

Sigmund hummed along unconsciously. Amazing that one song could contain the heartache that he had felt within. He hoped Lukas was listening.

Normally, he would not have fallen asleep in a stranger's presence, especially a stranger who had threatened him earlier.

But, drained of the emotions that had too long contained within him, he had little choice.

William Lee Lloyd had not finished the song before Sigmund was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

A/N: I do not own "Carry On, My Wayward Son." It did seem to fit, though.

And yes, William Lee Lloyd is another of my crazy OC's. He represents the CSA, and is also a true Southern gentleman. And he plays the banjo.


	51. Chapter 50

The war did not go well.

America had not expected the war to come across the ocean- either of them -to his land, and thus, he had not made the correct preparations.

Nor had he expected an attack from the east.

That would be his undoing, if anything would be.

Enemy forces were already fighting as far east as the California-Nevada border.

And that was **_with_** help from Russia and Japan.

Of course, he also had intell that Denmark was sailing down the East Coast. America had no idea where he was going- New York? -but wherever he ended up, it would be disastrous for America. After all, one Denmark was a Viking horde unto himself. By all accounts, he had an armada.

And the capital of Norway- Oslo, wasn't it? - had shown no signs of capitulating. He wondered if another pass over the city with the bombers would work.

Probably not. Even after the city had been razed to its foundations. He could still remember the first time he met Norway.

It was during WWII, 1943 to be exact, and he and England had been smuggled into Bergen. At the time, Norway had been running resistance efforts from his small apartment there.

The three of them planned bombing of a German heavy water plant.

The whole time, Norway had not smiled. Not once. Instead, his eyes burned with some emotion- probably hate -and his mouth had been set in a hard line. Though he had been under Nazi control for three years, his back was straight and he held his head high.

America remembered thinking that whoever tried to break this man would be shattered first.

Not a pleasant thought at the moment.

He shook his head. He had work to do, and with Canada gone, there was no one left to help him. He had no time for daydreaming.

* * *

A/N: Quick Historical Background Time (because not many people besides people who live in Norway and I know this (And I only know this because my ginormous 33-page English project was on this.))!:

During WWII, Norway was occupied by Nazis. The Nazis decided to build a heavy water plant so they could make a nuclear bomb. Obviously, no one wanted this to happen (except the Nazis, of course). So the Norwegians, with the help of the British, blew the plant up. However, this did not deter the Nazis. So, the Americans had to bomb it. (This is the event America is referring to above; he is probably not aware of the first bombing.) Finally, the Nazis were like, "Hey, let's take the remainder of this valuable heavy water somewhere those pesky Norwegian rebels can't get it!" So they tried moving it to Germany. However, the route they intended to take involved ferries, so when the heavy water was loaded onto a ferry, the Norwegians blew that up. And that is why Germany did not have the Atom Bomb during WWII.

(This is far more entertaining when you think of it in terms of Hetalia, FYI.)


	52. Chapter 51

Denmark, at this point, was used to being looked at like he was crazy.

He didn't like, nor did he understand it, but he was used to it.

And sure, his plan was ambitious, and fine, it had been thought up when he was…distraught. But did that change the validity of it?

According to his allies, yes.

"It's a viable plan of attack!" Denmark stubbornly insisted.

"Do you not think that America would have defended his capital?" Switzerland asked.

"Of course he has. But he would have defended the rest of his East Coast as well. If we try to take that, we may not have enough resources to force his surrender. It's better if we bypass everything up to D.C."

"We may not have enough as it is. Perhaps it is better to go back to Europe. Regroup, recover. Then when we are strong again, we may come back and take our revenge-" Switzerland argued.

Denmark slammed a fist onto the table. He didn't usually get angry, and he wasn't angry now. No, he was frustrated, pure and simple. Couldn't they see that Norway, if he was even still alive (there had been no news on that front), needed their help? If he was capable of getting back to them, he would have already. "I have laid out the plan. My strategists have found no problems with it. I merely called this meeting as a formality."

Sweden and Finland exchanged glances. Denmark's "King of Northern Europe" persona was beginning to show through; if someone disobeyed him now, heads were going to roll (literally, as Sweden had found out once.).

Prussia stood. "Zhe incredibly awesome me supports zhis paln. I, for one, vould like zhis vor to be over sooner razzher zhan later."

"Thank you, Prussia. Does anyone else have something they'd like to add?"

No hands went up.

"Very well. In that case, we'll reach D.C. in two days. Be prepared."

Denmark stalked out of the room.

* * *

"Sir, you've got a visitor from-"

"This is not a tea party!" Denmark exclaimed. "I don't have time for this."

"He says he wants to talk to you about his brother, sir."

No, it couldn't be…

"Send him in."

"Yes, sir." The messenger left and soon another man walked into the room.

"Little Bro, what brings you here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Well, I'm listening. What's wrong? Is the rebuilding going well?"

"That's not why I came to talk to you." He paused. "I want to talk to you about my brother."

Denmark reshuffled the papers on his desk. "There is nothing to say."

"The Hell there isn't. Look, he's my brother. I want him back as much as you do."

Denmark smiled bitterly. "I'm not sure that's possible."

"Danmörk, you are not the only person who has a close relationship with him," Iceland began bluntly. "Now, you had better get him back, or there will be Hell to pay. After all, this is your mess."

In that moment, Iceland reminded Denmark very strongly of his brother. All the mannerisms were there: the way his head was held high; the way his back was perfectly straight, never slouching; the way he looked directly at Denmark as if daring him to contradict him.

"That's unfair, Little Brother."

Iceland started at the use of the words "Little Brother" -only Norway ever called him that. "Is it?"

Denmark opened his mouth to say something. Then he realized that Iceland was correct. This was his fault. "I intend to get your brother back if it kills me." He owed them both that much. "Do you understand?"

Iceland nodded, but said, "If you fail, I will have few options left. Do **_you_** understand?"

Denmark frowned. "You wouldn't."

"I would. Have you ever wondered why I don't have a military? It's because I don't need one."

It was painful to see Iceland act so much like his older brother.

But also, he really needed to get Iceland away from the Gates of Hell. As soon as possible.

"I will not fail. I swear it."

"See that you don't."

That almost made Denmark angry (his word was **_gold_**, and besides he never failed), but he controlled his temper. "Good day, Little Bro."

"Good day, Danmörk." Iceland stalked out of the room, a faint red aura leaving with him.

He really needed to spend more time away from the Gates of Hell.

* * *

A/N: A Quick update: The other day, my mom was talking about this workshop thing she went to. Apparently, she met people from Switzerland. However, she pulled an America and referred to them as Swedish. It made me chuckle.

Also, about the above chapter, the Gates of Hell are totally in Iceland. We can also assume that A) Iceland has a bit of magic as well (come on, he's Norway's brother, and everyone knows that magic is a genetic thing), and B) he's totally referring to his demon army. (There are demons in Iceland. If you're bad in Iceland, you don't get coal for Christmas; you get eaten by a demon.)


	53. Chapter 52

"Prussia! The baby's kicking. Come feel!"

Prussia looked from his paperwork to his wife. She was longing on their bed, wearing one of his old shirts and a pair of sweatpants (there had not been time to go shopping for maternity clothes). Her hands rested on her belly; she was nearly nine months pregnant. She was laughing; Prussia assumed her laughter was directed at the baby's antics.

He stood, stretched, removed his reading glasses, and went to sit on the side of their bad. Tentatively, he held a hand up; he always felt awkward touching her stomach for some reason.

Hungary, on the other hand, was terribly impatient; she took his hand and placed it on one side of her belly. Immediately, he felt the soft thumps of the baby's kicking.

"He's very strong."

"He?" Hungary asked, a gleam in her eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"I assumed he'd be an awesome boy."

"I think she'll be a girl."

"Vell, ve'll find out soon enough, won't ve?"

Her grin grew wider and, with a quick motion (who knew that pregnant women could move that fast? Or that gracefully?), she changed their positions so that she was now sitting in his lap. "Still, you will be a good father either way."

"You're awesome." He gently pressed his lips against hers in a chaste kiss.

She winced as he pulled away.

"Are you alright, Liebe?" Prussia asked, concern in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine. The baby decided to kick me in the ribs, that's all." She rubbed her tummy, as if to soothe the baby. "You may be right; it could be a boy after all. A girl would know better."

"Yeah right." He let her palce his hands back on her tummy. The baby had stopped kicking. "Liebe, zhere is somezhing I need to talk to you about."

She sighed and nestled closer to him. "What is it?"

"Ve'll be anchored near D.C. tomorrow."

"Yes…"

"It vill be dangerous."

"If there's fighting."

"Which zhere probably vill be. And zhat's why…I don't want you leaving zhe ship."

There was a moment of silence.

"You can't be serious!"

"I am very serious." Perhaps this was the most serious he had ever been.

"But-!"

"Liza, it would not be a good idea in your…condition. And I've already got it approved by Denmark."

"Let me speak, Gilbert." It was a bad sign that she was calling him Gilbert. Stupid hormones. "Your child is the most irritating being I have ever put up with, besides you, of course. I have carried him without complaint for nine very long months. And now, as a reward for my suffering, you're going to take away my largest source of excitement and fun? What kind of man are you?"

"The kind who would prefer to have his wife and unborn child be safe." (He made no remarks about the "without complaint" part of her speech; it would do no good.)

"Well," she spat venomously as she stood and walked towards the door, "you could have asked me first."

"Liebe!" Prussia leapt up to follow her, but was incapacitated by a frying pan.

He sprawled on the floor, watching the stars floating around his head fade.

He really hoped she wouldn't do anything rash.

Then again, it was Hungary.

Stupid hormones.

* * *

A/N: Apparently, albinos often have vision and hearing problems. And so, Prussia uses reading glasses.

And the next chapter will be very entertaining, I hope. (Because France. That's why.)


	54. Chapter 53

France wondered how some women could put up with this more than once in their lives (much less sixteen, like Empress Maria Theresa).

It really wasn't fair. He was tired all the time, often hungry (that made it very difficult to watch his figure. Not that it mattered, but still…), had weird cravings (haggis. Why was haggis a thing?), and could no longer fit into his own clothes.

It was all Scotland's fault.

Him, and his stupid attractiveness, and his je ne sais quoi, and-

And France still had another full month left.

Which is why he thought it would be a good idea to seek out Scotland's first-born. After all, there was no time like the present to make another attempt to bond with your grumpy teenage step-son.

At least he wouldn't be hard to find. He rarely left his room.

France knocked on Tormod's door.

A muffled "Jus' ta moment!" came from within.

France idly wondered what he was covering up. A girl (or boy)? Unlikely. While there were ways of sneaking people in and out of rooms not on the ground floor, there were none that France would not have noticed. (Because France had quite a bit of experience in this department.) So…something on the computer, probably. Understandable; Tormod wasn't exactly social, and he rarely spoke to anyone in the house, if he could help it.

The door opened and Tormod stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him.

He looked to be about fourteen or so, and had inherited Scotland's bright red hair. He wore all black, down to the headset that was currently slung around his neck. The only color in his entire outfit, in fact, was the lettering on his shirt. (Some band, France thought, although he couldn't say for sure, since he didn't read Norwegian.)

"Good morning, Tormod."

"What do you want, Francis?"

"I was going to make some crepes. Would you like to help?" Mmmm…crepes. Finally, a normal craving! Even if Tormod didn't want to help, he was going to make crepes anyway.

Tormod stared into France's eyes. They both had blue eyes, although Tormod's were darker (no doubt due to the boy's other parent). France felt trapped in the boy's gaze, as if Tormod were staring into his soul. He could not look away.

Finally, Tormod looked down at his feet. "What's th' real reason ye wanted t' see me?"

"Your fazzer and I are worried about you."

"My father," Tormod began bitterly, "is in no position t' worry about me. I read th' news. An' even if he was, he wouldn't worry about me, 'cause he doesn't care about me."

There was nothing wrong with Scotland- certainly nothing that would have ended up in the news. And Scotland was worried about Tormod; it wasn't natural to spent all day alone in front of a computer-

Oh.

A sudden realization hit France: Tormod didn't seek a paternal bond with Scotland. Always a more…maternal one….

He stifled a laugh. No wonder Scotland never talked about his relationship with Norway.

The baby kicked France in the ribs. Hard.

This was all Scotland's fault.

"Why don't we go sit in the kitchen and talk?" France suggested. He really needed to sit down…

"Um…sure, I guess."

France led the way to the kitchen, where they sat at the table.

"Why do you say zhat your fazzer wouldn't care about you? I have met him, and he doesn't seem like zhe kind of man who would forget about his children, much less zhe kind who wouldn't care."

"Yeah, well, I guess it's a difficult thing t' remember when ye've got as many as he does. Besides, haven't ye wondered why I'm in this house?"

Goodness, how many children did Norway have? Apparently, he got around far more than France had previously suspected. "Some custody issue, I thought…"

"There was a war. There always is, ye know. And t' save his arse, Far gave me back to Mor, who never had time fer me, on account o' his wars wit' Uncle England. I woulda preferred t' stay wit' Far, but…"

The use of random Norwegian words startled France; he hadn't thought the boy remembered much of that language. "Don't curse, Tormod."

Tormod grinned. "Should I have used a different word that 'arse'?"

"Probably. What would your f- uh, Scotland say?"

The boy shrugged. "I really don't care." He absently played with the hole in his ear- from a piercing, France guessed. He wondered why the boy never wore anything in it.

The baby kicked him again- thankfully not in the ribs. Just one more month…

"So…" Tormod began after a brief, yet awkward silence, "ye said somet'ing about crepes?"

Merde, that's right. "Desolée, I don't think I can right now…"

"If you tell me how, I think I could," Tormod said shyly.

Another startling revelation. Especially considering Tormod's general unwillingness to do anything.

"Um, sure. You'll want to get a pan out, a large, flat one…yes, exactly like that. Now turn the stove on to 'High'. While that's heating up, get two eggs…"

* * *

The first crepe turned out horribly burned. The second was undercooked. The rest were so perfect, France wondered if they had strayed to his favorite crepe stand in Paris.

Clearly, Tormod hadn't inherited the poor cooking skills that characterized Scotland's family. (Sure, Scotland said the England was the only one who couldn't cook, but France had eaten haggis. And he'd seen it made, too…)

They were having a lovely conversation about music (Tormod had a surprisingly varied taste in music -everything from classical to death metal- so it was easy to talk to him), when Scotland walked into the kitchen.

He seemed a bit surprised to see Tormod there (mainly because Tormod rarely left his room).

"Hello, Mor."

Scotland was even more surprised to hear Tormod speaking to him in a civil tone. (Though he could have done without the "Mor". France had a guess that Tormod did that just to irritate Scotland.) "Hello, Tormod. Franny."

"Bonjour, Écosse."

"So, what have ye two been up t'?"

"Tormod made crepes."

"Francis helped!" Tormod interjected.

"But he did all zhe work," France continued. "Clearly, he did not inherit your cooking skills, mon amour."

"There's nothing wrong wit' the way I cook."

France raised an eyebrow. "I never said zhere was."

The baby was kicking again. Merde, was he going to be a professional football player when he grew up?

Scotland must have noticed the change in expression on Frnace's face. "Are ye alright, Franny?"

"Oui. The baby's kicking again." He rubbed his belly absently. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. "Tormod, come here, s'il te plait."

Confused, the boy stood and walked over to France's side of the table.

"Now, give me your hand."

Tormod did so. France held his wrist and laid his hand on the round curve of his belly.

Startled, Tormod looked first at Scotland, then at France. "That's th' baby?"

France nodded. "Oui."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"We don't know yet."

"Well, I goin' t' be th' best big brother ever."

"Of course you will." France ruffled the boy's hair. "Now why don't you run along? I need to talk to Scotland."

Tormod nodded, took another crepe off the plate on the table, and retreated from the kitchen, presumably back to his room.

As soon as he was gone, France turned to Scotland. "We need to talk."

"About what?" Scotland asked innocently, reaching for a crepe.

France glared. "About zhat boy. What else?"

Damn, another mood swing…

"He seemed fine t' me."

"You should spend more time wiz him."

Scotland sighed. "He doesn't like me much."

"Well perhaps if you spent more time wiz him, he'd like you more!" France stood up. He was so done with this irritating Scotsman. And those irritatingly sexy green eyes weren't helping.

So he stalked angrily out of the kitchen (as much as a very pregnant person could; it was more like a very determined waddle). Needless to say, it did not take long for Scotland to catch up.

"Franny…"

France turned around and glared up at Scotland. (It was **_so_** irritating that he was shorter than his…spouse.)

"Francis, what's wrong?"

The concern in Scotland's voice made France want to cry.

He actually did start crying then. (Stupid hormones...)

Scotland put his arms around France, who spent the next five minutes or so sobbing into Scotland's shirt. (The frustrating part was that France really couldn't stop crying, as much as he wanted to.)

Finally, the tears stopped flowing. Miserably, France tried (unsuccessfully) to shrug out of Scotland's embrace.

"Yer not goin' anywere 'til ye tell me what's wrong," Scotland murmured, rubbing France's back. (It felt amazing, by the way.)

"I hate you. So much. You and your bizarre cooking and- and your je ne sais quoi…Your baby keeps me up at all hours of zhe night, and gives me weird cravings, and I swear, e's going to be a football player and 'e's getting in some early practice on my ribs…And it's incredibly unfair zhat you still look so unbelievably sexy and-!"

Damn mood swings.

So, here he was, crying into Scotland's shirt AGAIN, despite the fact that this was ALL his fault.

"Zhis is all your fault, Écosse."

"Je sais." Scotland wiped away the last remnants of France's tears. "Je t'aime."

"Je te deteste."

"I know." He leaned down to kiss France gently on the lips. "Here's what we're going t' do: yer goin' t' choose a movie, any movie ye want, then I'm goin' t' bring tha' plate of crepes into the living room, and we'll cuddle while we watch th' movie an' eat crepes. How does tha' sound?"

It sounded amazing, actually. Except for this whole thing with the baby, Scotland was a pretty good husband.

"You'll talk to Tormod, right?"

Scotland nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Alright, then." He already knew what movie he wanted to watch, too.

* * *

And that's how France got Scotland to watch _Beauty and the Beast_.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was way too much fun to write. I almost cried because I was laughing so hard. Pregnant!France is my totally my favorite character of all time.

"Mor" means "Mother" in Norwegian; "Far" is "Father."

And I'd like to thank Musicforeverinmysoul, Siakeruu Arrisorra, ZheAwesomePrussia, and SomethingAuldSomethingNew for help with the last eight chapters. You guys are awesome! (Though, technically, I really should be thanking ZheAwesomePrussia, , and SomethingAuldSomethingNew for help with the entire story. That's right; without them, the SKUniverse would not exist. Virtual cookies for all!)

I should be finished with this particular story in about 10 chapters, and I plan to start a new story almost immediately after. (I did promise that I'd eventually explain all of Norway's children, didn't I?)


	55. Chapter 54

The phone rang.

America considered letting it go to voice-mail, but he couldn't afford to wait for news these days; if the phone rang, he had to pick it up.

He hoped it was good news.

"Hello?"

"Sir, a fleet has been sighted outside the harbor. Orders?"

America felt vaguely ill. "What colors are they flying?" That was the correct term, wasn't it? He had never paid much attention when England tried to teach him stuff about sailing.

England…

No, he couldn't dwell on the past.

"Mostly Danish and Norwegian, but a few others as well, sir!"

Dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit.

This was very bad.

"Sir? Orders?"

America shook his head. "Get in contact with the flagship and see what they want." He already had a pretty good idea of what Denmark wanted, but asking would give him time to think.

He hung up and put his head down on his desk. What had gone so wrong? This whole thing was supposed to be quick; a simple seizure of Norwegian oil fields to offset the money being sent to Prussia and Germany. Money that he should not have had to pay.

How long ago had this venture started?

He couldn't remember.

The phone rang again. With a sigh, he answered it.

"Privyet, Amerika. We had news recently that Denmark's armada was going to attack your capital."

Man, America wished (secretly, of course) that he could get ahold of some Russian spies. They were even better than the NSA at finding stuff out.

"Yeah, they're outside the harbor. We've just commenced negotiations."

"You need to get out of the city, Amerika. It is not safe. Come to Moscow; there is always a place for you here."

Russia sounded equal parts concerned and wistful. Weird.

"I can't do that, Broski. I need to be here. But, um, thanks for the, uh, offer?" Why was he so nervous? It certainly wasn't because he was afraid of Russia, because he was most certainly **_not_**.

"Amerika, please, just leave the city. It is not safe for you anymore."

"I'll do what I can. But look, I really gotta go. Talk to you later!"

"Amerika, don't-!"

America hung up.

The phone rang again immediately.

He answered.

"Sir, the Danish fleet is demanding our immediate, unconditional, and total surrender. Orders?"

America covered to receiver with one hand and cursed like a sailor. To the aide calling him, he said, "Don't bomb them. Whatever you do, don't bomb them. Just wait for-"

The phone died.

He hoped that his message had gotten through. The phones had been rather static-y lately, and the big-wigs in Washington were more than a little trigger-happy.

He looked out his window. It had a rather nice view of the harbor.

He saw immediately that his message had been a victim if the static-y phone lines: a missile arced over most of the ships, hitting the one in the very back. The missile exploded on contact, and all that was left of the ship was a fiery ruin.

America took the opportunity to curse in every language that he could think of before running out of his study.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I made a NSA joke. It's what I do.

And America is totally denser than a rock, I swear.


	56. Chapter 55

Denmark cursed as the missile arced overhead, and kept cursing until it made contact with the last ship in his fleet. It was only a supply ship, manned with the smallest crew possible, and he could not feel their deaths (for they were not Danish), but it was a loss that he could not afford to have.

Denmark had made it very clear in his message to America that any attacks would be met with force.

He was a man of his word.

He sent one aide to radio one of the other supply ships to stay behind and look for survivors. He sent another to the launch deck to tell them to fire at will.

He felt no satisfaction in watching the city being destroyed. It was, he had heard, an architectural marvel, especially given when it had been constructed. But he did what he had to in order to achieve his goal: Norway, or, if that was not possible, America at his feet, begging for mercy.

He would not kill America. Because nations could not afford to do that. Not unless they wanted to be cut off from the world, disgraced, shunned, and eventually, killed by the loneliness in their own hearts and in the hearts of their people.

But he would find America, and he would get his revenge.

He watched in morbid fascination and anticipation as the city burned.

He was the kind of man who could have laughed as the world burned, but he did not.


	57. Chapter 56

The door opened.

Lukas blinked at the bright light flooding the basement.

"Come on! We have to go now!"

Who the hell was that? Lukas didn't move.

The person climbed down the stairs and stood in front of Lukas. "Norway, dude, we need to go now."

America….

Lukas could feel Sigmund's scorn, his hate, his anger threaten to take control of him. But he had the upper hand now. He shoved those emotions to the very back of his mind.

Lukas wondered idly if this was a hallucination. It was difficult to tell sometimes.

America grabbed Lukas's wrist and hauled him up. "Dude, we don't have time for this. Come on!"

America began walking back up the stairs, dragging Lukas behind him.

"What are you doing?"

No reply.

A faint sound caught his attention. "Is that thunder? It's not safe to go out if it's thundering."

America smiled grimly. "That's not thunder, and no, it's not safe to go outside, but we don't have a choice."

"Where are you taking me?" Lukas was rather nervous about leaving the basement, and possibly the house. How long had it been since he'd seen the sun?

"Somewhere safe, I hope. There's a secret bunker about a mile outside of the city, if we can get to it."

Bunker? Why did they need to get to a bunker? And if it wasn't thunder, then….?

Distantly, he remembered how the much thunder could sound like other, more dangerous things.

"The city's being bombed." It was not a question. He knew.

America nodded. "It is." They reached the front door of the house. America opened to door and dragged them both out. America began walking at a fast pace. Lukas found it difficult to keep up; the months in the perpetually damp basement had aggravated his respiratory issues. "Look, Norway, the bunker's that way." He pointed straight ahead. "It's fairly well-hidden, but you should have no trouble finding it."

"Aren't you going with me?"

"Of course, but… if I don't make it…" He shook his head. Lukas noticed how he clutched his side with his free hand. "We'd better start running; the city's not safe anymore."

So they did. Lukas wanted to ask why America was doing this for him, but he did not have the breath to spare.

They did not get very far before the world exploded in a flask of light, pain, and finally, darkness.


	58. Chapter 57

"Sir! They're surrendering!"

About damn time, too.

He took the binoculars from the aide to his right. Immediately, he saw the large white flag someone was waving. That person was not America. Odd.

He handed the binoculars back.

"Orders, sir?"

"Radio the launch deck. Tell them to cease fire at once."

"Yes, sir."

Denmark went below decks to get his gear; they'd be doing reconnaissance, in order to find survivors. And they had no idea how many people were behind the surrender; just because one person had surrendered, that did not mean the whole city had. It was best to be prepared.

In his room, he came across a very tearful Normandy.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" he asked, pulling her into his lap and embracing her. He really could not remember the last time she'd cried; it just didn't happen very often. He was fairly certain that it had happened, though.

She shook her head.

"Come on, Sweetheart, you can tell me anything."

"Dan-Dan, I'm scared."

"Why are you scared, Sweetie? You're safe here."

She nodded. "I know…but….you'll find Papa, won't you?" She looked up at him. It was uncanny the way her eyes bored into his, as if she was looking at his soul. No doubt it was something she had inherited from her father, but even he had not been this good at it at her age.

If nothing else, she was her father's daughter and, as such, she deserved the truth.

"I'm not sure anymore. But I will do everything in my power to get him back, okay?"

She studied his soul for a moment longer. Apparently, what she saw satisfied her, for she nodded and hugged him. "Thank you, Dan-Dan." She was all smiles again, her morose mood gone as quickly as if had come. "I know you will. Good luck!" She hopped off his lap and left his room, likely looking for a good place to "talk to her fairies" in peace.

Denmark watched her leave. Normandy was definitely Norway's kid; there was no doubt about that. Norway, as difficult as it was to believe, had been similarly cheerful as a kid, though he'd had his moods.

He sighed. It was unfair how much she reminded him of Norge. Even her mannerisms mirrored his.

Dismissing such thoughts as useless, he stood and gathered up his gear. There was much to be done.

* * *

A/N: I need some help: Is Iceland a European nation, or is it North American? I say European. Other people, whose names I will not mention, say North American. Your input? Thanks!


	59. Chapter 58

Hungary was still seething.

Even after a night spent in an unoccupied cabin, trying to calm down.

It hadn't worked.

Currently, she strode down one of the ship's corridors in an oversized uniform. She would show that Prussian!

Even if she felt God-awful.

There was nothing that could keep her from this battle, except-

Oh God.

All of the muscles in her abdomen seems to tense up at the same time. She groaned as she clutched at the wall for support. It hurt. A lot.

Damn that Prussian!

It really was all his fault, after all.

As soon as her muscles were back under her control, she took a deep breath and stood up.

She waved down one of the soldiers scurrying through the corridor.

"Ma'am?"

"Could you take me to the infirmary?" Hungary had no idea where it was; she hadn't needed it before. It seemed like she would not be joining this battle after all….

"Are you alright, Ma'am?" The soldier was young, and she seemed concerned.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Apparently, she spoke too soon; she doubled over again, clutching her distended belly as she ahd another contraction. She was**_ so_** going to kill that Prussian when this was all over…

"Ma'am!"

Hungary took several deep breaths. "Where is the infirmary?"

"It's this way. Can- can you make it?"

Hungary nodded. "Yes. Lead the way."

A sudden thought occurred to her as she followed the soldier: did this ship even have an obstetrician?

Well, either way, it was too late now.

Prussia was going to die for this.


	60. Chapter 59

Prussia was in a bad mood.

And not just because of his fight with Hungary.

No, his bad mood was at least partially caused by the bullet hole in his arm. Damn rednecks.

It didn't really hurt, though it was bleeding profusely. It hadn't been healing up the way it should, so Finland had sent him back to the ship.

It was extremely un-awesome, and Prussia would have argued, except it was a bad idea to argue with the nation who had perfected to Molotov Cocktail.

He really hoped there weren't any other casualties; he wanted to get his arm taken care of as soon as possible, so he could get back out there.

As he got to the infirmary, he began hearing shouting: curse words, based on inflection, but he wasn't really paying attention, and the curses weren't in German.

One of the nurses took him to an exam room and sat him on the table.

"This won't take too long, but I recommend sitting out of the battle for the rest of today and probably tomorrow," she said, examining his arm.

He didn't reply; he'd go back into battle as soon as he was done here.

The nurse started cleaning his wound with peroxide. He hissed and to take his mind off of the stinging sensation, he struck up a conversation.

"So, vhat's going on down here today?"

"We were swamped earlier, but it trickled off a few hours ago. And one of the officers went into labor this morning, so it's been-"

Prussia jumped off the table. Oh God, why hadn't he been here? He tried to dash out the door, but the nurse grabbed is (uninjured) arm.

"Sir, your arm needs stitches!"

"Fräulein, I don't care about zhat right now," he gritted. "Zhat's my wife!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't let you in there."

"Zhe Hell you can't!" He wrenched free of her grip and absconded towards the door.

The nurse pushed the red emergency button on the wall.

Thirty seconds later, he was apprehended by the infirmary guards and dragged back to the exam table.

"Now, sir, we need to stitch up the hole in your arm. It won't take long, and then you may wait outside your wife's room. You won't be allowed in, but I'll make sure you receive updates, okay?"

Prussia opened his mouth to argue (he did not make deals; he was too awesome for that), but closed it again when he saw the nurse's face.

His response was a single nod.

"Good." The nurse began stitching up his arm. He looked away. It was totally not because he didn't like needles. Not at all.

As soon as she dabbed some antiseptic cream on the wound and bandaged it, he leapt off the table.

"Vielen dank, Fräulein," he said hurriedly.

She nodded. "Come back in a few days so I can check on it."

He nodded, then sprinted out of the room.

Prussia did, of course, try to get into Hungary's room, but he was stopped by another pair of guards (perhaps it really was time to start working out with West…) and unceremoniously pushed into a chair.

He had problems just sitting there ( he was well within earshot of the room, after all), so as soon as the guards were gone, he leapt back up and started pacing.

Prussia was freaking out- there's not a better word for this.

He should have been there- he should be in that room right now. (Obviously, he had no idea about the birthing process.) What if something went wrong? What would he do then?

If he had to, could he raise a child by himself?

Of course, he had raised Germany, but Germany had been old enough to make his own food when Prussia forgot (which had totally never happened. Ever.).

He tried questioning the nurses who were going in and out of the room, but they ignored him. "Receive updates," his left a-

His line was abruptly halted by a sound.

A baby's wail…

Oh God, he was a father.

He almost started hyperventilating, except that the door opened and a nurse carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle approached him.

"Are you Gilbert Beilschmidt?"

"Ja…"

The nurse smiled. "This is your son." She handed him the bundle. "Careful, he's sleeping."

Prussia took the bundle and looked down at the sleeping baby. A son…

He was so overcome with joy and pride that he had to sit down. He did so gently, not wanting to wake up the baby.

Speaking of which, he was the most awesome, beautiful, adorable baby that ever existed. Soft tufts of brown-ish hair covered his head, and even as a baby, his facial structure was similar to his mother's.

"May I see my wife now?" he asked the nurse.

"Yes, of course. She's resting, though, so you won't be able to stay long."

Prussia entered the room.

Hungary was in a bed, covered by a blanket. At first, she appeared to be asleep, but she opened her eyes when he shut the door.

She looked…tired, but happy.

"Liebe, are you well?"

"I'm fine, Gil." She had a weary smile on her face.

"You're beautiful. And awesome. And so is our son."

Her smile doubled in size.

"I love you, Liza."

"I love you too, Gil."

He kissed her forehead.

The baby woke and started crying. Prussia frowned. Had he done something wrong?

"Here, he's just hungry."

Prussia handed her the crying baby and she began to take care of the problem.

He sat down in the bedside chair. "Liza, I'm sorry about last night. It was really, really un-awesome of me. I should realize zhat you're capable of taking care of yourself and-"

She laughed. "Gilbert, it's okay. I was mad at yo, but you were right; I was just too stubborn to admit it."

His mouth fell open. He was right? That never happened with Hungary. It was like a miracle or something.

"You **_are_** awesome."

"I know," she quipped smugly.

He cast a sideways glance at his wife and shook his head. It wasn't worth arguing with her.

After a moment, she spoke up. "Our son will need a name."

Yes, but what land could they give him? Prussia thought. He will need that, too.

Out loud, he said, " Ja. About zhat…I vas thinking zhat a Hungarian name vould suit him…."

"How about Frederick William Beilschmidt?"

Prussia could not breathe for a minute or two. "Are- are you serious?"

"Of course. It's a rather nice name, don't you think?" she asked off-handedly, as if she didn't realize that importance of that name, which, of course, SHE DID.

"It's an awesome name." He could play her game.

"I thought you'd say that. Well, it's settled, then. Why don't you hold Frederick William for a little while?"

She handed the baby back to him. Frederick William looked up at him with unfocused eyes.

Solemnly, Prussia addressed his son. "Frederick William Beilschmidt, you're going to be zhe most awesome kid ever. And I vill personally teach you how to play video games."

He ignored Hungary, who was laughing at him. It was an important skill in this day and age!

* * *

A/N: Plot twist: Frederick William doesn't like video games!

And Prussia is so ridiculous.

A quick note about names: Frederick William was the name of several kings/emperors of Prussia. (It's like how all the kings of Denmark are named Christian.) According to my A.P Euro History teacher, Frederick William II was the reason Prussia is "a military BEAST" (her words, not mine). He is also known as "Old Man Fritz."


	61. Chapter 60

It had taken nearly all day for Denmark to get where he was. (Damn Rednecks.)

And he wasn't entirely sure where that was, either.

He had been to D.C. before, of course, for meetings and parties and whatnot, but the city was almost completely destroyed.

Weapons' manufacturers did not mess around.

Based on the composition of the rubble around him, he shouldn't be too far from America's house (or what was left of it).

He had already searched what he thought was the pile that used to be America's house. Nothing.

He looked around, trying to find a clue about where the missing might be.

Something caught his eye. Sunlight glinted off a piece of glass down the street. It was probably nothing; there was broken glass everywhere.

But… what if it wasn't nothing?

He strode over to investigate.

The reflection was caused by a mangled pair of glasses- America's.

Oh God.

A scrap of cloth- its color indeterminate- caught his eye next.

He picked it up. It felt an awful lot like uniform material.

Frantically, he began digging through the rubble.

He only stopped when his fingers came in contact with something soft and utterly different than the stone.

He took a deep breath and began removing the stone more slowly.

It did not take long to find something- rather, someone.

America.

Denmark felt sick. He'd done this. This was his fault.

He checked for pulse, although there was little hope; the front of America's shirt was completely red (with no indication of its previous color) and there were many large holes, the largest of which was right over where his heart should be.

To Denmark's surprise, there was a pulse, though it was too faint, and far too slow.

"America?"

America's eyes opened. They were unfocused and pain-clouded, but he was alive and conscious. He could still be saved.

"Denmark…" he breathed, his voice o faint that Denmark had to lean in to hear.

"Denmark, forgive- me. I was…wrong." Blood spilled from one corner of his mouth.

"No, it's ok! We'll get through this. We'll get you some help. Just hold on…Where- where is Norway?"

America shook his head. "It's too late for me. As for Norway… the explosion…I don't- know." He closed his eyes. "Denmark, I'm very tired…and cold…"

"No, stay with me! Help will be here soon. Come on, stay with me!"

"I'm talking, so…shut…up… I need you to- find someone to take my place… This is a great land, and there are great…people…I don't want it all to be destroyed…"

"America, you have to-!"

"Tell Ivan…no, tell Vanya," he corrected himself, "tell him that I…"

Denmark would never find out what he was supposed to tell Russia, for those were the very last words the United States of America would ever speak.

Denmark didn't know this yet. "America? America, wake up! The world needs you!"

He checked for a pulse. There was none.

He tried CPR. That only caused more blood to seep through America's shirt.

Finally, even Denmark had to accept it: America was gone. For good. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Nations spend large parts of their lives watching history being made. And this involves, more often than not, humans dying.

But never, not in Denmark's memory, another nation.

Tears flowed down his face. Why had this happened? Nations weren't supposed to die. Not ever.

A shadow fell across the ground. Denmark wiped his eyes and hastily looked up.

Switzerland stood over him. "He's…?"

"Yeah."

"That's too bad. The world will miss him. He had a lot of potential." Switzerland removed his hat and stuffed it into his pocket.

Denmark felt numb. America, his friend, was gone. Forever. And it was his fault, though he hadn't meant for this to happen.

"Norway might be nearby. You go look for him, Denmark. I'll take care of…well, I've got this."

Denmark nodded and stood. "Thank you, Switzerland."

Almost immediately, he felt a bizarre tugging sensation in his head. Curiously, he followed it.

The tugging led him to a small pile of rubble. A tiny scrap of navy blue fabric caught his eye.

This was it, then. Norway (or his body, the pessimistic voice in Denmark's mind interjected) was here.

He began digging.

He unearthed Norway's upper body first. Norway's eyes were closed, bruises covered his exposed skin, a thin stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and another streamed from one eye.

Quickly, Denmark searched for a pulse in his neck.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then… _beat…beat….beat…..beat…beat_

His pulse was getting fainter, the beats getting farther and farther apart.

Hurriedly, Denmark removed the rest of the rubble and did a damage assessment. (It really was a good thing he'd been around so much death when he was younger; he could handle this with a cool head.)

Left leg: broken in at least two places.

Left arm: broken at least once.

Left hand: shattered. If Finland couldn't fix it, it would have to be amputated.

Chest: Unknown. The front of Norway's shirt obscured the damage, but it was completely red with blood. Possible broken ribs, and based on the blood coming from Norway's mouth, a punctured lung.

Norway needed to be taken back to the ship ASAP if he was going to survive.

But he couldn't be moved yet, not without a stretcher and a neck brace. Crippling spinal injuries were not something to mess around with.

Denmark sat back. He had no way of contacting anyone, since to radios they were using were old and wouldn't work because of the debris kicked into the atmosphere by the bombs.

A tiny movement caught his eye.

He turned his head just a little. It wasn't a movement at all; it was a flicker.

The flicker of what Norway had once called his "fairy light."

Denmark had no idea what it would mean if it went out, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't be good.

"Come on, Norge. You gotta hold on. We've all come too far for you to die now. Just a few minutes longer. Come on. You can do it."

He murmured the words, as if they might help, and perhaps they did, for not a minute later, Finland ran up, carrying a large, flat package. "Denmark!"

"That's a stretcher, right?"

"Yes." Finland began setting it down.

"Good, I need it."

"Why-?"

As Denmark stood, Finland was able to see Norway.

"Oh God."

"Yeah, come on, we don't have time to waste."

The stretcher was easy enough to set up: pull on the handles it they locked into place, the secure the fabric.

After the stretcher was set up, Denmark carefully put the brace around Norway's neck.

"On three, Ready?" Denmark began as he prepared to lift Norway onto the stretcher with Finland's help.

"Ready."

"1…2…3!"

They heaved him onto the stretcher, careful not to jostle any of his limbs.

"You got that end, Finland?"

"Yeah."

"Good. We need to hurry."

* * *

Once there, Norway was rushed to the infirmary, Denmark and Finland right behind. (Denmark really didn't trust any of the human doctors; after all, they had, at most, 50 years of study. He had more than a thousand.)

They washed their hands (three times, per Finland's insistence) and readied themselves for the intensive procedure of saving another nation's life.

* * *

A/N: I'm not going to apologize for this chapter, FYI. Although, I'm sure that some of you could see it coming (and some of you pestered me enough that I told you).

I feel like the use of "Vanya" is pretty telling about certain things. And that's all the confirmation you're going to get.

I could be evil, it's true.


	62. Chapter 61

A/N: Just a friendly warning about Romano's language. It's very strong. Obviously, if you will be offended, skip this chapter.

* * *

Spain put his head down on the bar.

He was, to put it bluntly, very drunk.

In fact, he was so drunk, he couldn't remember what he'd been drinking.

And it really didn't matter.

The turtle on the bar agreed with him.

"Mi amigo," Spain said to the turtle, "I am a very lonely man."

The turtle said nothing.

"All of my amigos are *hic* getting married and having *hic* kids….I had a lot of kids, you know…"

The turtle blinked. Spain took this as a sign to continue.

"Si, I did, but they all *hic* left. Or Inglaterra stole them. God, he's such a *hic* bastardo…"

The turtle totally agreed with him. It deserved a reward.

"Camarero, las dos bebidas para mí y mi amigo Tortuga!" ["Bartender, two drinks for me and my friend Turtle!"]

The bartender gave him an odd look, but poured two glasses and slid them across the bar. Spain set one down in front of the turtle, who seemed disinterested. Spain didn't notice, though, probably because he was too busy drinking from his own glass.

"Was!?"

The sudden interjection startled the Spaniard, despite the fact that it came from across the room and was not even directed at him.

Spain turned his head to see Germany talking rapidly into his phone. At one point, he put his hand over the receiver and directed Romano (who had been sitting with Germany and Feli to make sure that there was no hanky-panky) over to where Spain was sitting.

"Hey, Bastardo."

"Hola, Romano!" Spain smiled and pulled the frowning Romano into his lap.

"What- what are you doing, Bastardo?!" Romano flushed.

"Roma, will you marry me?"

"What?!" Romano was now the shade of one of his beloved tomatoes, if not redder.

"Marry me, Romano~!"

"Are you drunk?" He caught a glimpse of the many empty glasses sitting in front of Spain. "You ARE drunk! Look, you'd better sober the fuck up, because Tomato Bastard sent me over to tell you that you need to get off your bastard ass and fucking get some goddamn funeral clothes."

Wait, what? Funeral clothes? Why would he need…?

"What? Are you so drunk that you forgot there's a fucking war going on out there, Bastard?"

Oh God.

He was immediately sober. "Who…?

"America. The funeral is the day after tomorrow."


	63. Chapter 62

Norway woke slowly, his eyes reluctant to open, his limbs oddly stiff.

Was this what getting old was like?

Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position before opening his eyes.

When he finally did, he closed them again immediately.

When in all nine realms was he? He'd never been here before.

This was not America's basement. Not remotely.

Was this yet another hallucination?

Yet, so far, all of them had been horrifyingly unpleasant.

This place was what the Bible would call heaven.

_Was he dead?_

(Then again, if he was dead, he probably would have ended up in Hell. At least he'd be in good company.)

So, was he dead? Was this a hallucination? Or was he really here, at the base of an enormous tree that overlooked an even larger plain, with many houses scattered across it?

Something, a distant memory, tugged at him.

He opened his eyes again.

It was a sunny day.

He looked down at himself. He wore all blue: blue tunic, blue leggings, blue shirt.

He could not feel the fabric against his skin.

He felt nothing.

_ He could not feel the collective emotions of his people that were always in the back of his head._

A sound caught his attention.

A beat.

Then another.

And then another.

Was it his imagination, or was there a lag between the second and third beats?

Well, it probably wasn't important.

At least, not as important as the group of people walking towards him.

Among them were two very familiar faces (well, he did tend to see them every day in the mirror). This was very bad.

"Lukas Odinsson."

His old, presumptuous, name. He had not used it for…many years.

"Am I dead? Is this heaven?"

"No. Not…yet."

Ominous.

"Who are you? Where am I?"

"Why do you not recognize us, Norovegr?"

The people in front of him seemed curious.

Words came unbidden to his mind. "You are- were - my gods."

"And are we not still?"

"You abandoned me! You let my people die of the most ignoble means! We were defeated! And in the end, we had no choice but to renounce your names." Every word was cold, emotionless, dead.

"What would you choose now?"

"I am finished with this life. My purpose is no more. My people- I cannot even sense them anymore."

"Have you considered that it is due to the fact that you are no longer in Midgard?"

"Would that affect it?"

"It might."

"Let someone else take my burden. I have served long enough."

"Who is there to take your place?"

"You would know, wouldn't you?"

"Aren't you feeling guilt at abandoning your people?"

"I feel nothing."

The beats were growing both louder and slower. What did that mean?

Erik pushed his way to the front of the crowd. "Lukas, you must live."

"You can't make me. You are powerless."

"Will this help you make up your mind?"

The man with one eye held out a mirror. Lukas took it and stared into it.

_A man, whose name was no longer known to Lukas, set down a scalpel. Just for a moment. Then, he picked up a surgical needle._

_ The view broadened._

_ From above, Lukas saw himself lying on a hospital bed, the nameless man bent over him. Another man (whose name would not come to Lukas's mind) worked on repairing what seemed to be an inordinate amount of damage. _What had happened?

_ A sudden noise, the piercing shriek of a heart monitor, split the silence._

_ This sent the two men into a panic- a strangely silent one._

Lukas no longer heard the beats.

Had that been his heart beat?

Was he truly dead now?

No matter, he felt nothing.

"Make the correct decision, Lukas."

What was the correct decision?

"If you die, more will die with you."

Who? Who would die? Could he… well, not live, but deal, with himself after that?

"I- I cannot live as I have been."

"What do you mean, Lukas?"

"My sanity. I must have that. I cannot live split into three entities anymore."

"Are you sure, Lukas?"

"That is not my name. I am Norway."

The man with one eye smiled. "Welcome back, Norway."

The monitor in the mirror made another noise, a soft ping.

The world swirled like mist and disappeared. The last thing he remember was seeing Sigmund's ad Erik's faces, hopeful, yet afraid.

* * *

A/N: Sorry it's been so long! I had another bout of writer's block, I started school (on the first of August. -_-), and I've been delving deeper into Homestuck. It's a problem.

I really do inted to finish this, and I'll have the next chapter as soon as I can.

Also, I recently changed my Tumblr url; if you want to follow me, I'm coffee-is-my-soporific.


	64. Chapter 63

It did not rain the day of the funeral.

It should have.

A man such as that should have been mourned by the very elements themselves.

But no, it was sunny, almost too bright for comfort.

Denmark wondered what the other side was like- he'd recently been having rather morbid thoughts. If this kept up, Finland was going to drag him to a shrink.

But first, one very mournful day.

It passed in a haze. No one, when questioned later, could quite remember the events of the day. No one could remember the words spoken, the hymns sung, the food served after.

Everyone agreed that every nation had shed tears, though. That was the way of it; even if you had a rivalry, you respected them- you were family, and nothing could change that.

After the last words were spoken, the last of the soil patted into place, the last of the food nibbled at, and nations were beginning to drift away, Denmark checked his watch. 2:34.

He'd been away for more than three hours.

Was everything ok-?

They would've called otherwise…right?

He looked around for Finland. (He had the car keys, since he didn't trust Denmark to operate heavy machinery.) He needed to get back. Now.

He caught Finland's eye. The Finn nodded and excused himself for whoever he was talking to. (Denmark wasn't paying attention.)

"Finland, can we go now?"

"You really are like a child, you know that?"

Obviously, Finland had decided to partake in the alcoholic beverages offered (because that had been in the will); otherwise, he never would have said that. Denmark decided to ignore that comment.

"Will you please drive me back to the ship?"

"You do realize that the best doctors in the world are monitoring him, right? He'll be fine for a few hours."

"It's been a few hours."

"Look, Denmark, you're stressing out over this too much. No, let me finish! It's not going to help anyone if you die of exhaustion, okay? If I agree to take you now, you have to sleep in your own bed. No more falling asleep in the arm chair. And you have to eat the food I cook for you. You're much too thin. Ok?"

"Yeah, sure." He had little intention of following all of Finland's rules, but he needed a ride.

"Cool. Let me go find Sweden and we'll go."

* * *

What Finland didn't know (or he would have gotten Denmark to a shrink immediately) was that Denmark blamed himself for everything: America's death; Norway's coma; the war, even.

Rationally, of course, the war was not remotely his fault; the death and coma could be counted accidents.

But a good leader (even if he isn't leading anymore) takes responsibility for those around him- both for what they do, and for their fates.

Eighteen hours spent trying to save a life only redeemed a small fraction of his soul.

But if that life was lost, then his soul could not be redeemed.

Logically, it made no sense. But Denmark was not a logical man; he was a man of passion.

Furthermore, he disliked trusting the people who were his responsibility to others. Even for three hours.


	65. Chapter 64

Days passed, seemingly without end.

No change.

The doctors said that it was normal, especially after something traumatic like that. Finland said that they'd just have to wait; if Norway wanted to wake up, he would.

Denmark didn't like to consider the other option.

And even if (when!) Norway woke up, would he be the same?

There was no way of knowing.

Denmark tipped his head back, running his hands through his hair. Why did this have to happen?

The soft pings of the monitoring machine filled the room, quiet but pervasive.

That never changed.

Other things changed: the worry lines on Finland's face had grown gradually deeper, most of the casts had been removed, much of the panic in what was left of the U.S. had been quelled, the world itself was constantly changing.

A small sound interrupted his thoughts. It was, unlike the pings, organic in nature, so utterly different it caught his attention immediately.

Tiredly, he raised his head and looked over at the bed. Was it his imagination, or had Norway's hand moved just a little?

The sound came again, and Denmark realized that Norway was crying in his sleep (it wasn't possible to cry in a coma, was it? Denmark thought not.).

A good and bad sign; Norway was waking up, at least.

Denmark sat down at the edge of the bed. "Shoooosh…" Gently, he brushed the hair out of Norway's eyes.

Denmark hated to see Norway cry.

So, he lay down next to the crying man and held him close, hoping that he would wake soon.


	66. Chapter 65

Dreams faded slowly, vanishing into a blank whiteness that had no name.

The heart began pumping just a little faster, coming out of its self-imposed torpor.

Blood warmed the limbs, banishing the chill in the farthest extremities.

All in all, waking was a slow process.

It was the brain that woke slowest, though the process was by no means fast. Rather, every synapse made a decision to connect to its neighbors, slowing bringing the body back from the brink.

A wise man once said that for every synapse, there was a star in the night sky.

A beautiful image, but it brought no solace to the living.

Eyelids fluttered softly. That did bring comfort to those left behind.

Fingertips brushed cool sheets, bringing an awareness of space with the sensation.

The next sensation was that of being too warm. Too warm, after being so sold for so long.

Arms and legs tried to kick of their covers, but they could not move.

Eyes reluctantly opened in order to see what might be restricting the body's movement.

They closed again immediately; the world itself was too bright.

Someone was holding him.

How long had it been since he'd woken up like this?

Too long, far too long. Not since…

Fuck it, it was too early.

A restlessness built up inside. How long had he been asleep, anyway?

The person next to him mumbled something.

Unceremoniously, he elbowed his bed-mate in the ribs. "What the fuck are you doing here." It was not really a question at all, just a comment.

In response, his bed-mate gently brushed the hair off his face. "G'mornin', Lukas."

"_What the hell are you doing here_."

"Are you alright?"

_"What the bloody fuck are you doing here, Idiot?"_

"God, so demanding."

"Answer me, damn it. And some coffee, please."

Norway still hadn't opened his eyes, but he was aware that he was snuggled up against Denmark's chest (still clothed. What in Heaven, Hell, and Earth had happened?)

"You were crying in your sleep."

_What had happened?_

"Where are we?" Not Copenhagen. Please, not Copenhagen. Anywhere but Copenhagen.

"Oslo."

Thank God.

"What happened? Why are you…?"

"You don't remember?"

Images came to him. Yes, he remembered now, at least in part.

"So, I guess you found me after…?"

"Yeah. It's a good thing we found you when we did. We almost… lost you…"

Norway was well aware of that. He hadn't needed to come back, not if he didn't want to.

"And…" He was afraid to ask, but he had to. "America. Is he…?"

"We held a funeral."

Norway exhaled sharply. He'd known this would happen. Nothing could have been done to prevent it, but…

"When?"

"A while ago. You shouldn't worry about it now. Finland says you should rest-"

"I've had enough rest, Dane. How much, exactly?"

"…A month and a half."

Fuck, no wonder he felt restless.

"We need to talk."

"Is this really the time? I mean, you just woke up, and-"

"Shut. Up."

Surprisingly, the idiot Dane did as he was told for once.

During his time away, Norway often wondered what would happen once he was free. He did not hate Denmark, as he'd once told a good friend (nor Sweden, for that matter, but that's irrelevant). There was, however, too much history between them to be ignored.

It was so confusing, sometimes. As a man with several hundred years to his name, he should be past pedestrian teen-age feelings.

"You're an idiot."

"You've told me."

Slowly, Norway opened his eyes. The light was still too bright, but not unbearably so.

It was hard to say what he wanted. Being with Denmark in the past had been… difficult, sometimes, but it had not been without its rewards.

Impulsively, he brushed a soft kiss against Denmark's lips.

Gently, Denmark kissed back.

"But, if you don't mind, you could be my idiot…"


	67. Chapter 66

ay came out of his unexpected slumber to the sound of two people arguing. Quietly, and outside the room, but… well, he did know what people arguing sounded like.

"Not yet, Sweetheart. He needs more time-"

"Danmark, please, let me!"

Who was this lovely sounding young woman with the slightest hint of a French accent? And why, **_IN ALL NINE REALMS,_** was Denmark referring to her as 'Sweetheart'?

It would be a lie to say that Norway did not have a streak of jealously in him.

Norway considered throwing something at the door (there was a lovely glass pitcher nearby that would do admirably), but the door opened. His jealously was instantly forgotten.

A young girl, about six years old, walked into the room. It would, in fact, be more accurate to say that she floated into the room.

He knew her at once: her enormous sea-blue eyes, her golden-blonde hair, the way her eyes sparkled, as if she knew a secret and was about to tell.

"Émelie…" Her name was the only word he could find. She was growing up so fast- much faster than the others. Would she, too, leave soon?

Her face lit up with a smile. "Papa!" She ran over and hugged him.

Over the little girl's shoulder, Norway caught Denmark's eyes with his own. A million questions shone there, but the Dane merely smiled.

"Papa, I'm really glad you're back. Could- could you tell me a story? Dan-Dan says you're really good at telling stories…"

Norway smiled softly. "Of course I will. What story would you like to hear?"

"Your favorite."

Norway's grin (there was no other word for it) grew broader. "Once upon a time there was a poor countryman who had many children and little to give them either of food or clothing. They were all very pretty, but the prettiest was the youngest daughter…"

* * *

A/N: I realized that it's been a month since I last updated... I'm just glad you guys didn't decide to make a petition to help Normandy secede...

Anyway, the story at the end is, of course, _East of the Moon and West of the Sun. _(I was going to have the opening of _the Little Mermaid_, but then I remembered how it ended.)

So, yeah, I'm still breathing. Just busy. However, I have a week-long break from school coming in a week, so hopefully, I'll be able to finish this then. (Note: I have been in school for two months now, because my school district decided to make us go back to school in August 1st.)


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